


Happy Endings

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 17:50:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Bodie is back in London and looking to get out of the mercenary game, when he becomes involved with a young copper, Ray Doyle.  When Bodie's last contact in the merc world is murdered, the two of them are forced to work together to solve the crime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Endings

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in Never Far Apart.

## August, 1969

The park was full of normal people, going about their everyday business. Over there, a young mother pushed a pram while her child played with his rattle. Near him, a businessman in a suit picked his way around a tramp with his hand stuck out for a few pence, both of them standing beside a statue of some old geezer who must have been thought important once but who'd been long forgotten by today's Londoners.

Bodie leaned back on his bench and marvelled at the sheer ordinariness of it all. None of the people who surrounded him, not even the tramp, had the shadowed eyes and nervous tics of the civilians in the places he'd spent his last seven years. The woman with the pram didn't scan the skies, wondering if a mortar shell was about to land on her and her child. The businessman wasn't surrounded by armed guards, paid to protect him from kidnapping and assassination. And the tramp didn't have the worried expression of a man who knew he might be killed at any time by a local death squad intent on eliminating "his type".

The peacefulness was almost more than Bodie could stand.

Apart from occasional stops in Liverpool, Portsmouth and Newcastle, he hadn't seen much of England's shores since he was fourteen, and none at all since he'd jumped ship in Dakar when he was sixteen. He'd been living in or near war zones since then. He didn't think he was built for the quiet life any more. If he ever had been.

Nor was he suited to war zones, though. At least not the sort he'd found himself in the last few years. Places where rebel and government forces were equally likely to massacre the people as protect them. Places where you might take a wrong turn in the bush and find yourself facing a ten-year-old with a Kalashnikov. He was sick of the uncertainty, sick of not knowing if he was fighting on the right side. Or even if there was a right side.

So, he'd come home. Or to England, at least. He doubted he could call the country home any more.

He'd ended up in London more by accident than design, knowing only that he didn't want to go back to Liverpool. He had no family left there he'd want to claim, nor that would claim him, come to that. And he didn't really know anyone else in England, apart from a few school chums who after all this time were only dimly remembered faces. They'd probably be just as disconcerted by his reappearance as he'd be by their no-doubt-ordinary lives. So, more by default than any true choice, he'd fetched up in London.

He'd used a small part of his savings to rent a comfortable flat in Highgate for the summer. The neighbourhood was genteel but not too posh for his means. Not that he had to worry about money, not for the moment. He'd saved rather a lot in seven years as a mercenary. There wasn't much to spend your money on in the bush, and he'd never developed a taste for the more exotic vices his comrades had indulged in. But he had no intention of spending all his dosh. He'd seen too many broken down old mercs fighting long past their prime because they were skint. He'd sworn that'd never happen to him and had a nest egg stashed away in a nice, secure Swiss bank.

For the moment, though, he thought he'd indulge himself just a bit while he got sorted. He enjoyed having a real roof over his head in a nice neighbourhood. He enjoyed having the milk delivered in the morning, having neighbours he could nod hello to. And he enjoyed wearing smart new clothes bought in fine haberdasheries, rather than grimy camouflage gear that hadn't seen a laundry for more weeks than he cared to remember.

He'd been to London only once before, on a long-ago school trip. Now, as then, it seemed a magical city, a place of myth made real. Just wandering along the Thames at night was an adventure, the lights of the city glittering on the black surface of the river, St Paul's and Charing Cross station and the Houses of Parliament rising up before him.

He'd spent his first few weeks in London like any other wide-eyed tourist. He'd climbed the height and breadth of St Paul's, from the crypt below to the Whispering Gallery above, and investigated the tomb of even the most obscure poet in Westminster Abbey. He'd gone to the Tower, spending more time with the weapons collection than gawking at the Crown Jewels. He'd visited museum after museum--the BM, the V&A, the National Gallery—until he could have walked their galleries in his sleep. He'd even got a reader's pass to the British Library, and chatted up a pretty librarian to gain access to an original Blake manuscript just to see what the old boy's pen strokes looked like up close. And he would have done none of these things, had none of these experiences, if he hadn't joined that first merc company and met Old Roger.

Roger Dempsey hadn't actually been that old—Bodie reckoned he'd been in his thirties when they'd met—but he'd been older than the young men that made up most of the company. Bodie still didn't know why, but Old Roger had taken him under his wing when he'd first signed up. Perhaps he'd realised how young Bodie was, or how little schooling he'd had. Perhaps he'd recognised something of himself in Bodie. Whatever the reason, Old Roger had set out not only to show him how to survive in the bush, but to provide some of the schooling Bodie had missed. Bodie'd soaked up the military information like a dried up sponge. He'd learned how to shoot and clean his rifle, how to keep his head down in a fire fight, and how to stay alive in a war.

At first he'd only suffered through Old Roger's other lessons. He hadn't seen the point of maths when he was at school, and history was just a boring bunch of dates. And poetry…poetry was the domain of ponces and desiccated old school teachers as far as he was concerned. But Roger had made him sit through it all, showing him how maths could be used to calculate the trajectory of a grenade launcher and how studying ancient battles could assist with the strategies of a coming fight.

But it was the poetry that had been Bodie's biggest revelation. Roger had set Bodie to reading a battered old anthology, and at first he'd considered it pure drudgery. He'd wanted nothing more than to toss that book onto the bonfire when Roger wasn't looking. He'd restrained himself only because Roger valued it above all his others. They'd waged war over the poetry, Bodie skiving off as much as possible, Roger fighting to get him to read it, until one day in frustration Roger had taken him line by line through one of Shakespeare's sonnets.

That afternoon, Bodie had discovered the power in words, how they could say more about lust and violence and passion than he'd ever thought possible. It was as if a new world had opened up for him, one he'd not known existed before. He'd torn through the poetry anthology and gone looking for more. He'd borrowed Roger's battered copies of Shakespeare's Henry V and Coriolanus. When he'd exhausted Roger's stash, he'd raided the rest of the camp, reading literature and pulp with equal abandon. And any time they'd visited a town, he'd kept an eye out for what books he could find.

Roger's lessons on soldiering had kept him alive that first year, but his lessons on poetry had done even more, reviving the curiosity that had been crushed out of him in childhood.

Bodie still had the anthology that had started it all. When Old Roger had taken a bullet to the head in the Congo, they'd found a letter in his pack dividing up his belongings. He'd left the battered book, along with his volumes of Shakespeare, to Bodie. Those books were Bodie's most valued possessions.

Bodie sometimes thought he might have been half in love with Roger. At sixteen, he'd had only an inkling he might be attracted to men as well as women. He might have made the leap that much sooner if Roger had shown any interest in him. But Roger had never been anything more than polite and friendly to Bodie, or to anyone else, for that matter. He had never tasted the wares of the brothels the company infrequently visited or cast an attentive eye at anyone, male or female. He'd lived like a monk, content to read his books and practise his shooting and impart what knowledge he had of the world to a green recruit.

Increasingly, Bodie found himself wondering what would have happened between them if he'd had the courage to approach Roger himself. He still regretted that he'd not had the bottle to make more of the short time he'd known Roger. He wasn't looking for love—his capacity for that emotion seemed to have been burned away in the crucible of Africa—but he'd sworn he'd never again ignore his desire for another human being.

So now he spent his days seeking out the culture he'd developed a taste for during long conversations with Roger, and his nights prowling London's nightclubs, searching for willing prey to satisfy his other, more carnal desires.

In West End discotheques, he sought out leggy, full-figured birds to fulfil his need for soft curves and soft loving. He enjoyed the games that were a tactical necessity with these women: the laughing small talk, the dinners and dancing, all leading to a friendly tumble between the sheets.

In Soho bars and clubs he hunted another kind of prey: leather-clad, well-muscled, and most definitely male. He played an entirely different game with the men, one that was more likely to end in a back alley, with his trousers around his ankles and a mouth on his cock, than in a bed.

And now, after a month of enjoying the pleasures London had to offer and adjusting to the look and feel and taste of England, he'd finally started to do some serious thinking about what he wanted to do next. He had skills but they were all in the art of war. If there was a call for someone to strip and clean a weapon or lay an ambush or set up an observation post, he was definitely the man for the job. But on civilian street, he was barely suited to the lowest sort of menial work, and he didn't fancy starting at the bottom of a crap job. He'd seen what that sort of life had done to his da, and he had no ambition to be a miserable drunk by the time he was forty.

So soldiering it was, with only the matter of deciding whether he wanted to return to the mercenary world or work for the Crown of England. He'd approached an army recruiter yesterday to feel out his options, to find how eager they'd be to take on a soldier with foreign experience that wasn't entirely legitimate. He hadn't used his real name and hadn't quite revealed everything he'd done, but he'd been well pleased by the recruiter's reaction. The bloke had been salivating when he'd realised the extent of Bodie's experience. Bodie had been virtually guaranteed a position as a sergeant in the Paras within a year, with more challenging assignments if he applied himself. And if Bodie knew anything, it was how to apply himself.

There was only one thing making him hesitate: Her Majesty's officers didn't look kindly on a soldier who had it off with other blokes. As much as he enjoyed women, it was sex with men that stirred his blood and tapped something primal within him. He wasn't sure if he wanted to give that up.

His chances in the army sussed, Bodie thought he'd take one last look at the mercenary world, see if there was anything there that could tempt him back, an assignment that didn't stink of corruption and decay. Which was why he found himself in this park, waiting for opening time. He'd talked to a few people – contacts whose details were passed around after one had made one's name in the mercs – and they'd all told him that the man to see was Jimmy Staunton at the Anchor in Southwark.

Bodie pulled in his feet as a couple of teenagers ran past. He smiled as they scuffled, the bigger of the two boys pinning his friend in a headlock, only to be undone by a round of tickling. He'd been like those lads once, skiving off with a mate from some bloody tedious class. Nine years it'd been. Might as well have been a million years ago.

Sighing, he checked his watch and stood. Opening time soon, just what he'd been waiting for. He made his way across Waterloo Bridge to the south bank of the Thames, and wound his way through narrow streets and past decrepit storefronts until he came to the place he wanted.

The Anchor wasn't the sort of pub you just wandered into. Not if you had a care for your skin. It was a rough crew that hung out there, and they didn't take kindly to strangers. As Bodie opened the door, he felt the eyes of everyone in the place turn to him, taking his measure. The men's low murmuring dropped to a silence broken only by the stuttering buzz of an ancient fan perched on the bar. Bodie didn't allow the glares to deter him, but simply nodded hello and headed straight for the bar. Not sensing either a copper or a victim, the denizens of the Anchor turned back to their own whispered conversations.

The Anchor's bartender, a hulking man in a filthy apron who glared at Bodie as he approached, was no more welcoming than his clientele.

"Pint of your best bitter, please," Bodie said.

"Sure you want to be drinking here?" the bartender said, making no move to get a glass.

"Yeah," Bodie said, not letting himself be dissuaded from his mission by the unfriendliness of the welcome. "I'm looking for someone. Been told this is his local."

"And who would that be?"

"Jimmy Staunton."

For the second time since he'd entered the pub, the room went quiet and all eyes turned to him.

"Never heard of the bloke," the bartender said. "Now why don't you fuck off out of here." He turned his back on Bodie and began wiping a dirty cloth across the shelf holding the bottles behind the bar.

"That's funny," Bodie said. "'Cause Benny Marsh told me this was the place to find him."

Benny's name got the bartender's attention, and he turned back to Bodie quick enough.

"You know Benny?"

"Yeah. Worked with him in Jordan."

"How about the Congo?"

"Benny can't set foot in the Congo. They'd have his head." Bodie gave a humourless laugh. "Come to that, they'd have mine as well."

The tension in the bartender's shoulders eased immediately, and Bodie could tell he'd passed a test. The man drew a glass of bitter and plunked it onto the bar.

"Jimmy's due in soon. Take your drink. I'll send him over when he arrives."

"Cheers," Bodie said, putting a fiver on the bar. The note disappeared and no change was forthcoming, not that Bodie had expected any. He raised his glass and took a seat at a corner table, his back to the wall, facing the door.

He waited for nearly an hour, nursing one glass of a bitter that couldn't have been anyone's best, watching the customers ebb and flow. He amused himself by imagining outrageous histories for the various men who haunted the Anchor: this one a disgraced vicar who'd made his name with an RPG in Africa, that one the illegitimate son of a peer of the realm who'd fallen on hard times and was fencing stolen goods for East End villains.

Just as Bodie was beginning to wonder if Benny had steered him wrong, a new bloke wandered into the pub. Even before the bartender nodded in his direction, Bodie knew this must be his man. Staunton matched the description Benny had given him to a T: heavy-set bloke, but with muscle under the fat, greying hair with abundant sideburns, and a shrewd look in his eyes.

Bodie nodded as Staunton sat at his table and gestured for the bartender to bring two pints. Staunton took a long pull from his glass before speaking.

"Bill tells me you're looking for me." Staunton's voice was a low rumble.

"Yeah," Bodie said, remaining deliberately relaxed. "Benny Marsh said you might be able to help me out."

"And what am I meant to be helping you with?"

"Finding a contract."

"Do I look like the bloody Labour Exchange, sonny?" Staunton said, frowning.

"As good as, for the kind of work I do."

"And what's that, then?"

"Let's just say I'm handy with a gun."

Staunton narrowed his eyes and fixed him with a penetrating stare that might have had a less experienced man squirming. Bodie returned the look with a bland expression and a raised eyebrow. After a long minute, Staunton relaxed slightly.

"You may be young, but you're a cool one. That's a good start." He took another swallow and then sat back easily in his chair. "What kind of contract are you looking for? Exactly."

"Well paying, but nothing too dirty. I had enough of that in Jordan and the Congo."

"You sure you're cut out for this line of work?"

"I've been doing it for long enough. Reckon I can afford to be a bit choosy."

"How long?"

"Nearly seven years."

"Must've started in your nappies," Staunton said, but Bodie thought he could see a certain respect in his eyes. Staunton drained the rest of his glass in two long swallows. "Let me ask around, see what's out there. You be back here at noon tomorrow. I'll let you know what I've got."

"Thanks," Bodie said. He stood to leave.

"You not going to drink that?" Staunton nodded at Bodie's untouched pint.

"Knock yourself out, mate," Bodie said, pushing the glass towards him.

"Cheers," Staunton said, taking a long swallow. "They tell me it's bloody horse piss, but I can't taste it. Got too close to a bomb blast in Egypt back in the '50s; burned out my sinuses."

"Convenient, if you're going to drink in places like this," Bodie said with a laugh.

"Don't I know it." For the first time since he walked into the pub, Staunton looked cheerful rather than wary.

"See you tomorrow." Bodie's smile and sloppy salute were returned with a nod.

Bodie walked outside, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the mid-afternoon sunlight after the gloom of the bar, trying to decide what to do with himself for the rest of the day. Maybe a few hours in the National's Renaissance collection, then back home. And this evening called for something special. No soft birds for him; he needed someone hard and unyielding and most definitely male. Tonight he was for Soho.

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and then headed back across the river.

*****

Doyle turned the key in the lock of his flat and threw open the door with a barely leashed savagery. The door crashed into the wall before rebounding into him. He slammed it shut, threw down his uniform cap, tore off his tie and swiftly opened the top three buttons of his shirt.

Bloody job, he thought as he threw himself onto his battered sofa. Stupid bloody job, stupid bloody sergeant and stupid bloody villains who were too bloody stupid to even realise when they were caught. He was sick of them all.

He toed off his shoes and viciously kicked them across the room, grinning as they bounced off the wall and clattered to the floor. No doubt Mrs Henderson downstairs was on the phone to the landlord to complain about the noise even now, but Doyle didn't give a toss if she was. He'd have enjoyed a good yelling match with the old cow.

As if on cue, there was a thump on the floor, Mrs Henderson knocking on her ceiling with a well-used broomstick. Doyle sometimes wished she'd just fly away on the damned thing.

One thing was certain: he had to get out of this bloody box of a flat tonight or he'd go spare. He stomped to the bedroom and stripped off his uniform, throwing it over a chair in the corner. He knew he'd be cursing himself tomorrow for not hanging it up properly, but right now he didn't care. Right now, he wanted chaos before and behind him.

In the closet that passed for his bathroom, he turned on the hot-water heater and took a five minute shower, exactly the amount of hot water he had, wishing he could afford a flat with infinite hot water. Not bloody likely on a lowly PC salary. He was lucky to be able to afford a flat on his own at all, and he knew it. Enough of the lads at the station still lived with their parents. Or were sharing, three and four to a tiny East End flat.

When the water ran cold, he snapped off the taps and dried off, then, tying the towel around his hips, he returned to the bedroom and stood in front of his closet, trying to decide what to wear.

First he had to decide what he wanted to do. A movie was out. He needed to move, to expend the destructive energy he could feel coiling through his body. A discotheque was a possibility, but he wasn't in the mood to engage in the chat-ups that were unavoidable in a place like that. He didn't want to make polite noises while some bird nattered on about her job and her friends and her bloody boring life. But he wouldn't say no to a willing body underneath him.

Or over him.

Yeah, that was more like it. A hard body with hard muscles, someone he could struggle with while they both fought for their pleasure.

It had been a long time since he'd had a man in his bed, not since he'd been enrolled in art school, a barely educated tough just down from Derby. Too long, he now realised. He'd sworn off fucking men when he'd joined the Met, not wanting to jeopardise his job. But today he couldn't give a toss about the job, and he wanted nothing more than to give in to the reckless need that burned through him.

He pulled on his tightest jeans with no pants underneath, a white t-shirt and a battered black leather jacket to complete his outfit. He looked in the mirror, pulling at a short lock of hair and wishing it was longer, but then he really would be fired. His sergeant would probably better tolerate him buggering a DCI in the hallway of the nick than letting his hair get longer than regulations allowed. Still, he missed the curls he used to have.

At the door, he pulled on his black motorcycle boots, grabbed his keys and a few quid from his wallet. He didn't carry any I.D. Where he was going, it didn't do to advertise your real name or give anyone a way of discovering it.

He slammed the door behind him, extra loud for Mrs Henderson's benefit, and locked up, then headed out the door and for the nearest Underground station.

*****

Rouge Noire was the sort of place Bodie saved for when he'd been a very good boy and he wanted to be a very bad one. It was upscale, as these sorts of places went: plenty of mirrors, the latest in pop art on the walls, the best sort of booze at the bar and the best sort of blokes on the dance floor.

Bodie was sitting at the bar, enjoying a good scotch and assessing the talent, when _he_ walked in.

The bloke was skinny, long legs clad in tight denim, but Bodie could tell by the way he moved that he was no lightweight. That slim frame held a whipcord strength, of that there was no doubt. The way he moved, his hips swaying in a masculine swagger, made it clear he was utterly comfortable in his skin. His face wasn't traditionally handsome, but it was damned striking. Almond eyes, short, wavy hair and a mouth that seemed made for pleasure. And the flaws made him even more irresistible: the bashed in cheekbone that gave his face an uneven cast and a hint of danger, the chipped tooth exposed by a quick grin. Within moments, Bodie knew one thing: he wanted that mouth around his cock before the end of the night.

He stood, finished his scotch in one swallow, and walked towards the bloke. He'd gone no more than a half dozen steps before he was noticed. The chip-toothed angel raised an eyebrow, then gave him a slow, wry grin that left Bodie in no doubt that his interest was returned.

"Will," Bodie said by way of introduction when he reached the man's side.

"Ray," was the response.

"Care for a drink, Ray?"

"You can do better than that, Will," Ray said.

"Yeah," Bodie said, resisting the urge to wrestle Ray against the wall and take him right here. "I reckon I can."

There was only one place that was close enough, dark enough, for Bodie at just this moment: the alley behind the club. And fortunately, without any discussion, Ray seemed to agree. They moved to the back of the club, not touching yet, but with the electricity growing between them.

As soon as they were outside, it was Ray who took the initiative, slamming Bodie against the decaying brick wall and taking his mouth with a fierceness that drove Bodie's breath away. They grappled with each other, leather jackets squeaking together, hands pulling each other closer, snaking under shirts, finding skin that was hot in spite of the cooling night air.

Bodie could feel his cock fill with blood, could feel Ray's harden and lengthen against him. He threw back his head and gasped as Ray fastened his mouth on his throat, biting more than kissing in a way that Bodie knew would have him wearing polonecks for a week to cover the marks.

He pulled Ray closer, wanting more contact, so much more, and moaned in protest as Ray pushed him away.

"Patience, sunshine," Ray said, and then was undoing Bodie's flies.

Having his cock exposed to the cool night air didn't slow his arousal at all. In fact it heightened it. He gasped as Ray stroked him firmly, bit his own lip to keep from coming far too soon. Ray bit his earlobe, then whispered in his ear, his voice throaty and low.

"Want me to suck you?"

"Christ," was the only answer Bodie could manage as Ray gave him another hard stroke.

"I'll take that as a yes," Ray said, and then he was down on his knees.

Bodie wasn't sure how he kept from coming right away as Ray teased him with tongue and lips before taking his cock in his mouth. The sensations were intense. Ray seemed to know just the right pace to set, just where to touch him on belly and hipbone and balls, just when to ease back when Bodie was going too far, too fast. But then Bodie reached the tipping point and he knew there was no stopping.

"Ray," he gasped out as he pulled at his tormentor's short hair. "Gonna come."

But Ray didn't slow down, didn't take the out Bodie had offered him. Instead, he took Bodie even deeper until Bodie's cock was pulsing down his throat. He swallowed it all, and when Bodie had come he found himself gently released from that gorgeous mouth. Before either of them could say anything, Bodie hauled Ray up by the collar and kissed him thoroughly, licking the remnants of his own semen from the corners of Ray's mouth, enjoying the taste of himself mingling with Ray. He could feel Ray's cock, hard and straining against those tight jeans

Want drove his next words. He wanted more than a few square inches of exposed skin. He wanted more than to give this man a back alley quick blowjob. He wanted both of them naked; he wanted to be buried bollocks deep in Ray's body. He wanted it all.

"My place?" Bodie asked.

Still panting with his own need, Ray looked at him. His tongue flicked over his lower lip as he considered Bodie's offer. Bodie was well aware how reckless that offer was, but he hoped that Ray felt enough of the ferocious longing that thrummed through Bodie's veins that he'd accept. And with a quick smile, he realised Bodie's hopes. "Yeah, I reckon that'd be good." And that was the understatement of the fucking year, Bodie thought.

They grabbed a cab, neither of them having the patience for the Tube. He spent the ride with his nerves thrumming as he fought the urge to touch Ray, to kiss him rotten, to bare every inch of his skin. He fancied he could see the same struggle in the way Ray clutched at the seat until his knuckles were white, in the way he kept returning Bodie's looks with a wicked grin.

When they reached his flat, Bodie let his desire off the leash. They shed jackets and trousers in a flurry in the front hall. Then, before he could act, Bodie found himself shoved against the door with a satisfying thump and thoroughly kissed as Ray pushed up his polo neck to expose belly and chest.

Bodie's arousal threatened to peak before they'd even gotten to the main event, but Ray pulled back, a warm hand remaining on Bodie's chest.

"'M glad you kiss," Ray said, his tongue playing across his bottom lip in a way that Bodie found utterly captivating. "Not all blokes do."

"'Course I kiss," Bodie said. "Wouldn't want to waste that bloody gorgeous mouth, would I?" He leaned closer to Ray and touched his own tongue to Ray's.

They never made it to the bedroom.

They ripped off each other's shirts and trousers as they stumbled into the lounge, Bodie pleased to discover that Ray wasn't wearing any pants. Bodie grabbed Ray and pulled him down onto the sofa on top of him. He let out a gasp as Ray put an elbow in his belly, but that didn't slow either of them down for a second. Hands and lips and tongues explored every bit of skin they could find, hips bucked and legs entwined to increase contact until they were both breathing as hard as racehorses on Derby day.

Bodie was flushed and aching for it when Ray pushed himself up.

"Don't stop on my account," Bodie said, frustration making him snap out the words.

"Not stopping." Ray looked down at him, his own breath coming in heaving gasps. "Just changing things up."

"Changing things how?"

"Do you trust me?"

"Barely know you," Bodie said, struggling to sit up.

"Yeah," Ray said, easily pushing him back down to the sofa. "But do you trust me?" Ray's expression was a combination of hope and hunger, and Bodie was struck by the thought that yes, he did trust this man, with his body at least.

"Yeah." Bodie swallowed once, hard. "Yeah, I trust you."

"Good," Ray said with a grin and a kiss.

If Bodie'd thought his senses had been overloaded before, it was nothing to what he felt now. Ray sought out every responsive spot on his body—the base of his throat, the skin over his ribs, the inside of a thigh, the arch of a foot—and touched and tickled and sucked and licked until Bodie thought he would scream with the perfection of it all.

And then Ray pulled back, his own erection hard in front of him, his hand playing across his own flat belly.

"Still trust me?" he asked, grinning like the fucking Cheshire cat.

"Yes," Bodie said. "Anything. Just don't stop."

"Oh, I won't," Ray said. Then he spit on his hand, and Bodie took a deep breath, knowing, craving what was coming next.

Ray applied the spit to his own cock, then grabbed Bodie by the hips, opening him in ways he'd allowed few before. A quick thrust, and Ray entered him. Then Bodie really did scream, head arched back, chest and arms straining with the effort of accepting the pleasure and the pain. Ray pounded into him, nipping at Bodie's lip and shoulder as he did so. Bodie concentrated on the feel of the cock deep inside him, of his balls brushing Ray's cock, of the hand on his own cock. And then Ray tensed above him and Bodie knew he was close, knew they were both close. Ray shuddered and grimaced and Bodie could feel him come deep inside, but Bodie wasn't there. Not quite yet. He placed his own hand over Ray's and squeezed, and they stroked together until Bodie came too, his semen splattering them both.

"Christ," Bodie said, when he could at last speak. "You'll be the death of me."

"If you're lucky," Ray said with a grin.

"You're bloody insatiable."

"You're the insatiable one. You're up on me, two to one."

"You want to even things out?" Bodie asked with a smirk.

"You up for it?"

"Yeah," Bodie said, straightening out his legs as Ray gave him some room. "But only if we move to the bedroom. You'll do me an injury if we try anything on this sofa again."

"Yeah, all right." Ray stood, gracefully unfolding himself and then offering a hand to Bodie. "Show us your bedroom, then."

And so Bodie did.

*****

Doyle woke up just as the birds were beginning to sing and a sickly grey light was beginning to break through the window. For a moment he wasn't sure where he was, and then it all came flooding back: the bar, the alley, the flat. Will.

He turned on his side and propped himself up on one arm. Will was sprawled beside him, mouth half open, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in the easy rhythm of sleep. He started to put a hand to Will's cheek, but stopped himself. Better he not wake the other man. Because if he woke, Doyle knew he'd want to kiss him and stroke him and fuck him. And quite possibly, he might never want to let him go.

Stupid to think that, when Will'd been just a one night stand, a bloke he'd pulled in a bar, but there was something about him… Like calling to like, Doyle thought it might be. And having had the thought, he immediately killed it.

Couldn't afford anything more than a one night stand, could he? Couldn't even afford a one night stand, really. He wasn't the stupid, streetwise bit of scruff he'd been four years ago. He had a career, such as it was. He had to worry about his reputation.

Sighing, he swung his legs out of bed and went to find his clothes.

He wasn't quite dressed when Will finally woke.

"You on your way?"

Doyle jumped slightly, then continued pulling on his jeans.

"Yeah." He zipped up his flies. "Due in at work in a few hours. They'll toss me out on my ear if I turn up in this clobber."

Will propped his head up on one hand and looked at him with the blue eyes that Doyle hadn't been able to resist at the club.

"This just a one-off, then?" Will asked. Doyle tried not to delude himself that there was disappointment lurking behind the question.

"Yeah, I reckon that'd be for the best," Doyle kept his eyes down as he answered.

"You're probably right." Will rolled over and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. "Anyway, I'm not likely to be around much longer. Taking a new job soon."

"Where you off to?" Doyle asked, forgetting the rules. Don't ask for any information, and don't offer it either.

"Not sure yet. Haven't decided. Just know that I won't be staying in London."

"Well," Doyle said, not quite believing what he was going to say next. "If you're not going to be here much longer, maybe it won't matter if we see each other again."

"That what we did? See each other?" There was a wry humour behind Will's words that suited Doyle down to the ground.

"Fuck each other, then. That better?" Doyle asked, certain that Will would appreciate the blunt honesty.

"Didn't, did we?"

"Didn't what?"

"Fuck each other." Will looked over at him. "You fucked me. I didn't fuck you."

"True," Doyle said. "Not fair, that."

"Not fair at all.

"Reckon we need to correct the situation."

"So, we'll 'see' each other again?"

"Yeah," Doyle showed all his teeth, a wolf's smile. "And then you can fuck me."

"Promises, promises," Will said, lying back in the pillows with his hands behind his head and a smug grin on his face.

Doyle couldn't let that go unchallenged. He strode over to the bed, dropped his hands on either side of Will's head and kissed him thoroughly, only breaking off the contact when he felt his cock stirring in his jeans.

"Christ, I've got to go. My guv'll kill me if I'm late."

Will frowned at that.

"You're never a plod, are you?"

"Figure of speech," Doyle said quickly, hoping the lie didn't sound as transparent to Will as it did to him. "When should we meet?"

"You mean when can I fuck you. Tonight?"

"I should be able to manage that. Say at ten?"

"At the club?"

"Yeah. That's closer to my flat than this place."

"Got something against my place?" Will sounded endearingly defensive.

"Nah. It's ten times better 'n mine."

"I demand the best," Will said with a wink.

"Daft sod," Doyle said, laughing. He checked his watch again. "Christ! Now I really do have to run. See you tonight." He grabbed his jacket and ran for the door before Will could answer. He kept running all the way to the Tube stop, thankful Will's flat wasn't that far from Highgate station and that the trains had started running. He took the Northern line to Borough, then walked the rest of the way to his flat.

Fuck the job, he thought as he took a quick shower. Fuck his reputation, he thought as he threw on the uniform he didn't have time to press. Fuck Sergeant Hensley and fuck the Met, he thought as he legged it for the nick. The devil could take them all as long as he could take Bodie. And Bodie could take him.

He arrived at the station with a smile on his face that had the desk officer looking at him suspiciously. And he didn't give a toss. Not when he reckoned he was a little more than twelve hours away from the shag of his life.

A few hours later, Doyle wasn't smiling at all.

Sergeant Hensley hadn't been impressed at the rumpled state of his uniform and had given him his first bollocking of the day. He'd also assigned him the worst patch in the area to walk.

From there the day had gone steadily downhill. By noon, Doyle had broken up any number of domestic disputes, only to be shrieked at by the wives and shouted at by the husbands. He'd also failed to catch several shoplifters and had been given more stick by irate shopkeepers.

By late afternoon, he was in a foul mood that not even thoughts of Will could dispel. He was just hoping to get through his shift, grab a quick shower and get to Soho as fast as he could.

But in the end, it didn't quite work out that way.

He was walking down a street, one of the roughest areas in a rough patch, when something caught his ear. He stopped and listened for a moment, straining to filter out the regular sounds of the city, the traffic, the old biddies talking on the stoop, the kids playing footy on the pavement with an old tin can. Then he heard it again, a muted crash.

He pulled out his truncheon and started moving quickly down the street, towards the entrance to an alley a few house fronts away.

He entered the alley cautiously, hoping it was nothing, just a cat or some kids kicking around rubbish bins. But then he heard what could only be a human voice crying out in pain, and in the gloom, he made out the shapes of three men scuffling at the back of the alley.

"Oi!" Doyle moved cautiously towards the combatants. "Break it up, you lot."

The men didn't break it up. If anything, their struggles become more frantic. Doyle sped up his pace, judging his chances of taking these three alone.

He was perhaps halfway down the alley when it all changed. One of the men, taller than the other two, put an older-looking man in a headlock. Before the grey-haired bloke could react, the third man, blond and far younger-looking than the other two, moved. There was the flash of metal, and before Doyle knew it the grey-haired man had slumped to the ground and the other two were running past him.

Doyle hesitated for an instant, but instinct told him the man lying in the alley needed his attention most. He was curled up on the ground, clutching his belly. Even in the muted light of the alley, Doyle could see the blood welling up between his fingers.

"Take it easy," Doyle said, adding his own hands to put pressure on the wound. "Try not to move."

"Doesn't matter," the man choked out, spitting out blood with his words. "I'm done for."

"I'll go for help," Doyle said, making a move to stand up.

"No," the man said, grabbing Doyle's arm with one blood-slicked hand. "It's too late." His voice was barely a whisper, and Doyle could hear the rasping of his breath rattle in his throat. "Stay with me."

"I have to try," Doyle said, and pulled away. He ran out into the street and to the nearest police call box, wiping the blood from his hands onto his uniform as he went. He made a breathless call, requesting an ambulance and giving the best description he could of the two assailants, one blond, the other taller and dark-haired, before racing back to the alley.

The man was still breathing, but only just. He was lying in an ever-increasing pool of blood.

"I'm back," Doyle said, placing his hand back on the wound. "Help is coming."

The man didn't try to speak again, only looked at Doyle with eyes already cold and dead. Doyle could hear the sirens come down the street when the man convulsed in his grasp. He took one more agonised, rattling breath, then the life drained out of him completely and he went limp as a rag doll.

Doyle had been on the force for a year, he'd seen bodies, but he'd never seen someone die before. The speed with which it happened shocked him. He was still kneeling on the ground struggling to comprehend what he'd stumbled into when the ambulance pulled into the alley.

As the ambulance driver pushed him out of the way, another car came roaring into the alley, stopping with a squeal of tyres to disgorge DCI Henry Rupert and two of his detectives, Jones and Peters. The sight of Rupert and his lot made Doyle shake himself out of the daze he'd fallen into. As much as he aspired to be a detective, dealing with CID generally left Doyle with a bad taste in his mouth. The detectives treated regular PCs like they were mentally deficient children, there to do the legwork but not to be trusted with anything requiring thought. Today seemed like it would be no exception.

"You the one that found him?" Rupert asked him with a sneer.

"Yes, sir," Doyle said, straightening his uniform and trying to wipe the worst of the blood onto his jacket.

"What's your name?"

"Doyle, sir."

"So, Doyle, what's the story?"

"Heard something in the alley. Two men were attacking this one. Stabbed him with a knife and did a runner."

"You didn't think to follow them." Rupert's tone made it clear he considered Doyle an idiot.

"Thought I might be able to help this bloke out."

"Yeah, well we can see how well that worked out."

Behind Rupert, Jones and Peters snickered.

"Shut it, you two," Rupert yelled at his underlings before turning back to Doyle. "You got any idea who our corpse is?"

"No. I've seen him around the neighbourhood, but I don't know his name."

"Well, seeing as you've already gotten mucky, why don't you do us the favour of checking him for I.D."

Doyle hid his revulsion and bent to pat down the corpse, amazed that it was already cooling. He found the man's wallet in his jacket pocket and pulled it out, handing it to Rupert. Rupert flipped through it until he found what he was looking for.

"Well, lads, looks like our corpse is Mr James Staunton of Prioress Street." Rupert threw the wallet back on top of the body. "We've already got the description Doyle gave of the two men who did the deed out to all officers. I'm going to check out Mr Staunton's flat." He turned to his two DCs. "You two can stay here and make sure the body isn't touched until forensics has been by to take pictures."

"Won't you need some help, guv?" Jones said, and Doyle was unaccountably pleased to hear a bit of a whine in his voice. It was nice to see that even CID had a pecking order.

"I'll take Doyle, here. He looks like he might be useful." Rupert fixed Doyle with a stern stare. "You can make yourself useful, Doyle?"

"Yes, sir," Doyle said, pleasantly surprised that he was being trusted with even such a minor job.

"Good. Now get that blood off your hands and follow me."

Doyle cadged a towel from the ambulance men, wiped his hands, did the best he could with his jacket, then joined Rupert in his car. He had barely closed the passenger door when Rupert pulled out of the alley. They made the drive to Staunton's street in what Doyle was sure must have been record time.

When they pulled in front of Staunton's house, Doyle's senses immediately came on alert again. The front door was open, creaking slightly in the breeze. The two of them approached cautiously and poked their heads inside.

An old dear was looking out the door of her main-floor flat. "Are you the police?" she asked in a querulous voice. "I was just about to call you."

"What's the problem, ma'am?" Rupert sounded almost solicitous.

"It's that nice Mr Staunton upstairs. I think some men broke into his flat. There was some awful crashing on my ceiling, and then banging on the stairs. I looked out the window, but I only saw the back of the two men leaving."

"Yeah," Rupert said, but his attention was already on the stairs leading to the first floor of the house. "Tell you what, love. You get back inside and close the door and we'll go check out Mr Staunton's flat."

Without a further word, the woman did exactly that. Rupert led the way up the stairs, with Doyle following. Doyle had his truncheon out, while Rupert was armed with nothing but his nerve. Doyle had to hand it to the bastard, he was a brave one.

When they reached the landing, they could see the door to the flat had been kicked open. They moved inside cautiously and found the flat had been done over. The lounge was full of overturned furniture, and in the kitchen broken glass and crockery crunched underfoot.

They made their careful way down the dimly lit hallway into the bedroom, finding the wardrobe torn apart and the mattress slashed. The bathroom was in the same condition, with the contents of the medicine cabinet strewn all over the small room.

"This is a bloody mess," Rupert said, almost to himself. "We'll be lucky to get a decent fingerprint off any of this lot."

Doyle only nodded.

"C'mon, Doyle, let's see if our OAP downstairs has anything to offer."

Said OAP was only too glad to talk to them. In a very short time they found out her name was Mrs Morrison, she'd been widowed for ten years, her poor departed Les had been a saint and that nice Mr Staunton upstairs had been in the habit of looking in on her.

"Is Mr Staunton all right?"

"Afraid not, love," Rupert said, and Doyle was surprised to see some sympathy in his expression. "He was attacked a few streets over."

"Oh my," Mrs Morrison said, bringing one tremulous hand to her mouth. "That's terrible." She paused and began to wring the pinny she was wearing. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised. Some of the people he kept company with…" She let her words trail off significantly and shuddered. "They were a rough lot."

"Anyone you'd recognise? Any names you know?"

"Oh no. I never paid them much attention. Just tried to keep my head down whenever Mr Staunton had visitors."

"Did you get a good look at the men leaving his flat today?"

"No," Mrs Morrison said. "Not really."

"How not really?" Rupert pushed.

"Well, they were making such an awful racket upstairs, I was worried. So, when I heard them on the stairs I took a peek out through the net curtains. I saw them leave, the two of them, but only the backs of their heads."

"What did you see?"

"One of them was blond. He was thinner than the other man, and shorter. I got the impression somehow that he was younger. The other man was taller, with dark hair. He was much better dressed than the other man. Had a sharp blue suit on."

"You didn't see enough to identify them?"

"I didn't see their faces."

"Bloody marvellous," Rupert muttered under his breath, then turned to Doyle. "What about you, Doyle? Do they sound like the men you saw?"

"Could be. One was definitely blond. And the other was dark haired."

"That's something, anyway. And their faces? Did you see their faces?"

"Sorry, sir." And Doyle really was. Sorry that he couldn't help Rupert, sorry that he couldn't identify the killers of Mrs Morrison's nice Mr Staunton. "I only saw them for a second."

"That's all right, lad. You did the best you could."

Doyle might have fallen over from the shock of receiving a kind word from Rupert if he hadn't felt quite so pleased by it. And maybe it was that, the pleasure at being appreciated, that inspired his next words.

"Is there anything else you can tell us, Mrs Morrison? Anywhere Mr Staunton liked to go?"

"He spent a lot of time at his local."

"And what was that?" Rupert asked.

"It's not very close, streets and streets over. I'm not sure I remember the name."

"Try, love," Doyle said gently.

"The Angler? No, that's not it." She bit her lip. "I remember now. It was the Anchor."

"The Anchor? You're sure?" Rupert's attention perked up.

"Yes, quite sure." And she looked certain, her expression clear and confident. "I remember him telling me about playing darts there just last week."

"Now we're getting somewhere." Rupert all but licked his lips in anticipation. "Thank you very much, Mrs Morrison. Someone will be in touch. We'll get you to the station soon, to make a formal statement." Rupert looked over at Doyle. "Doyle, follow me. Looks like we're going for a pint." He left the room without another word.

"Thank you, love," Doyle said, patting the old dear on the shoulder.

He hurried down the street to catch Rupert up, steeling himself for a visit to the Anchor. It wasn't a place most coppers liked going, and they never went there alone. Especially not in uniform. Doyle had been warned about that his first week at the Walworth nick. The Anchor had the reputation of being the place you went if you were setting up a dodgy business deal or planning a blag. Villains hung out there. If nice Mr Staunton had made that his local, he wasn't so nice after all.

A visit to the Anchor was daunting, but it was real police work, far more interesting than breaking up yet another slanging match between a woman and her straying husband. Far better than the day had promised at first.

And after his shift ended, his day could only get even better. 'Cause tonight he was going back to Rouge Noire, back to Will.

A smile on his face, Doyle got back into Rupert's car and prepared for a visit to the Anchor.

*****

Bodie was outside the Anchor when the doors opened, arriving early for appointments a habit of long standing. You never knew when getting somewhere before you were expected might save your life.

He responded to the bartender's raised eyebrow with a shrug, ordered a pint and found himself a corner table to wait, watching quietly as the regulars drifted in. At least they ignored him this time, Staunton's acceptance apparently making all the difference.

Noon came and went with no sign of Staunton. Bodie ordered a dodgy sausage roll and another pint--lager this time, in the faint hope that maybe it would be better than the bitter; it wasn't--and waited some more. When the bartender finally called time, Bodie was beginning to be mildly concerned.

"You heard from Staunton at all?" he asked the bartender quietly.

The man shook his head.

"He ever not turn up for a meeting?"

"Well, not often. But sometimes Jimmy goes on a bit of a bender and forgets where he's supposed to be."

"You think that's what's happened?"

The bartender shrugged. "Who knows?"

And Bodie knew that was all the answer he was likely to get.

"Ta," he said, and then he was out the door and into air that wasn't blue with smoke.

He spent the afternoon walking around. He crossed the Thames and wandered past St Paul's, up Fleet Street and the Strand, and came finally to Leicester Square. There he found himself surrounded by throngs of people, late summer tourists, school kids, and would-be hippies. He looked north, wishing it were night, so he could head into Soho, to Rouge Noire, and find Ray waiting for him. Ray, with his slanted eyes and generous mouth and a body built for temptation. Then he shook his head, chiding himself for his stupidity, and headed back to the Anchor.

The pub had already reopened when he got there, but the bartender confirmed that Staunton hadn't yet made an appearance. He nursed another lousy pint for an hour, wishing that ordering a lemon squash wasn't a killing offence in a place like this. Then again, if the beer was this bad, who knew what the lemon squash would be like?

After an hour, his stomach started rumbling with hunger. He couldn't face another sausage roll, and he didn't want to chance anything else from the pub's kitchen. Not to mention that he was beginning to wonder what he was doing here in the first place, looking to get back into a game that had long since turned his stomach.

"Bugger this for a game of soldiers," he muttered under his breath, and prepared to stand up.

Then the door to the pub opened and two men walked in. The first was a gruff looking, heavyset bloke wearing a rumpled raincoat and an even more rumpled suit. Something about him - the unconscious air of authority with which he carried himself perhaps – told Bodie he must be CID. The second man was a copper.

No, that wasn't quite right. The second man was Ray.

Gone were the tight jeans and leather jacket. In their place was a PC's uniform, buttons shiny and cap neatly on his head, though there did seem to be stains on his jacket. He saw the moment when Ray noticed him, when the green eyes went hard and that beautiful mouth thinned down to nothing.

Bodie felt his own eyes harden in return. He could hear the blood hammering in his ears and feel his breathing speed up. The bastard had fucking-well lied to him, told him he wasn't a plod when he was. Bodie struggled to calm down and gripped the edge of the table tightly, not wanting to reveal how much Ray's appearance had affected him.

The rest of the bar quieted immediately when they noticed Ray and his companion, and every eye was focussed on them with hostility. Bodie's own anger began to ease slightly and he tensed, wondering which way he'd jump if the regulars attacked the two interlopers, knowing before the thought was even finished that he'd watch Ray's back, even if he was a lying sod. If they made it out of here, there'd be time enough to tear a strip off the bastard then.

Fortunately, no one made a move towards Ray or his companion, and Bodie allowed himself to relax slightly.

The older man made his way to the middle of the room. Ray followed, stationing himself at the bar, facing the customers. Bodie noted with approval that he kept the bartender in his peripheral vision. He might be a plod, but he obviously wasn't stupid enough to let someone get behind him. His rage fading—after all, it wasn't as if he'd told Ray the whole truth either--Bodie had to admire him and the other bloke both. Facing a crew who'd as soon bash their heads in as look at them and not turning a hair? That took guts.

The other bloke took charge, immediately confirming Bodie's guess that he was CID.

"Most of you know who I am. For those who don't, I'm DCI Rupert." The man's voice was powerful but relaxed, and he possessed a confidence that no doubt helped in his job. "I'm looking for anyone who knows James Staunton," he said, his voice clear and steady. Bodie leaned back, wondering what Staunton had done to get the Old Bill after him.

"Bugger off, filth," said a grizzled old boy on the opposite side of the room. "There's no grasses here."

Rupert didn't even acknowledge the interruption, except with a flick of his eyes. "I'm looking," he continued, "for anyone who might've wanted Mr Staunton dead."

That created a buzz in the pub, and made Bodie start.

"Is Jimmy dead?" the bartender asked over the murmur of voices.

"As a doornail, mate. And I want to find the bloke who killed him. Did you know him?"

"Only to pull him a pint," the bartender said, telling no more truth than anyone else in this pub.

"What about the rest of you?" Rupert scanned the room, obviously looking for signs of guilt in his audience. Bodie flicked his glance over to Ray, and found himself caught by Ray's intense stare for a few long seconds that Bodie reckoned were uncomfortable for them both. "Anyone else know who might want to kill Jimmy?"

There was shaking of heads and muttered "no's", and one old duffer even spat on the none-too-clean floor, but no one came forward. If Rupert was worth his salt, and it seemed likely he was, he hadn't expected anyone to.

"Tell you what. Any of you lot remember anything about Jimmy or who might want him dead, you call me at the Walworth nick." Rupert nodded in Ray's direction. "Or you can contact PC Doyle here, if you like." Rupert pulled out his notebook, scribbled something on a piece of paper and handed it to the bartender. "This is my number." He stabbed a finger in the bartender's chest. "And don't you be throwing that in the bin as soon as I'm out the door, right."

The bartender nodded once, tension showing in his jaw.

Looking satisfied, Rupert gave the pub's patrons one last look and then moved towards the door. "C'mon, Doyle. We'll let these gentlemen get back to their drinking."

Once the door had closed behind them, the pub erupted in a cacophony of voices, as the regulars began to discuss the news of Staunton's death. Around him, Bodie could hear praise and disparagement of the dearly departed mixed with speculation about who might have offed the old bastard. Bodie kept his seat for a few minutes, considering his next move. Staunton had been the one trusted contact he had in the mercenary racket. He had other names, men who worked an even darker side of the street than Staunton had, but he'd been warned about them all. With Staunton dead, it looked like fate was giving him a clear message to stay out of the mercs. So, the army it was.

Only one question remained. What should he do about Ray?

Now that his initial anger at seeing Ray in uniform had faded, he felt torn in multiple directions. On the one hand, he wanted to go to the club tonight, find Ray and duff him up for being a bloody liar. On the other hand, he wanted to stay far away and never set eyes on the bastard again. And on the third, anatomically unlikely, hand, he wanted to go to the club to use not his fists on Ray, but his cock. To find out if fucking a copper, one very particular copper, would feel as sweet as he thought it might.

Of course, he was assuming Ray would show up. A small spike of panic drove through him at the thought that he wasn't the only one who might fail to keep their agreed meeting at the club. What if Ray never turned up? What if he never saw him again?

But then Bodie realised he at least knew Ray's real name. And where he worked. If Ray didn't turn up at Rouge Noire, then Bodie could take to haunting the Walworth police station until PC Doyle made an appearance. He wondered what would happen if he turned up at Doyle's nick, what it would be like to try it on with PC Doyle in his own station house. That little fantasy put a definite smile on his face.

Bodie shoved his pint glass aside, and stood to leave. But before he'd taken a step, a dark-haired man with a scar that twisted the right side of his mouth moved out of the shadows and sat at his table.

"Help yourself, mate," Bodie said, gesturing at the table. "I'm done."

"No, you're not," said a voice in his ear, and he felt a hand pushing him back down into his chair.

Bodie twisted to see the hand's owner, his senses coming immediately on alert. A younger, blond man stood at his side.

"What the hell are you up to?" Bodie said, tensing himself for a fight.

"I wouldn't try it," Scarface said. His posh accent didn't match the cruelty of his face. "You don't have a chance."

"I might do," Bodie said, sparing a look at Blondie. "Depends on how good you are."

"Don't you worry, mate," Blondie said, with a watered-down Geordie accent. "We're bloody good." And then he twitched aside his trench coat to reveal the holster beneath it with what looked like a 9 mm pistol snug inside.

"But then so are you," Scarface said. "One of the best. Aren't you, Mr Bodie?"

"How do you know my name?" Bodie growled.

"My employer is very interested in you, Mr Bodie. He wishes to become your employer as well."

"And how do you know I'm looking for a job?"

"Before his unfortunate demise, Mr Staunton let it be known that you were looking for a position."

"I never told Staunton my name."

"My employer is very thorough."

"And just who the bloody hell is your employer?"

"For reasons I'm sure you'll understand, he wishes to remain anonymous. But he pays very well. And you come very highly recommended."

"By who?"

"Certain of your colleagues. Not to mention your enemies."

Bodie deliberately kept his face neutral while he planned his next move. If he hadn't already decided to get out of the mercenary world, this odd meeting would have pushed him to it. It was dodgy from start to finish. But he had the feeling that if he told Scarface and Blondie to sod off, he'd wind up with a bullet in his head, and sooner rather than later. He didn't fancy ending his days feeding the flounder at the bottom of the Thames.

So, he pretended to be interested.

"What's it pay?"

"Well enough," said Scarface.

"I don't hire myself out on generalities. What are you paying? Exactly?"

"Would thirty per cent higher than your last contract do?"

"It might." Bodie sat back in his seat. "There's a few other things I'd need to know."

"Such as?"

"Location, for a start. There are a few countries that I'm less than welcome in, if you know what I mean."

"I can't give you an exact location now, but you have no worries, there." Scarface gave a distinctly shark-like smile. "We know your history, and you won't be working anywhere you are currently _persona non grata_. Anything else?"

"Wouldn't hurt to know the kind of job. Protection? Insurrection?"

"Like the location, our employer wants the exact nature of the job kept secret for now. But I can tell you that you will be assisting in making a certain, ah, regime change. I take it you have no moral objections?"

"Me? Nah." Bodie took a deep swallow of beer. "Done a bit of that sort of work before." Done it, was sickened by it, and wanted no part of it, but he wasn't about to share his feelings on the matter with these two.

"So we were led to believe." Scarface sat back and crossed his arms. The piercing look he shot Bodie's way seemed capable of exposing all Bodie's secrets, but Bodie didn't let it rattle him. He just crossed his own arms and tried to show no emotion whatsoever. "Will you take the job?"

"Maybe." Bodie didn't want to appear too eager. "Don't suppose you can give me any more details before I sign on?"

Scarface shook his head.

"Thought not." Bodie bit his lower lip. "Tell you what. Give me a few days to think it over, clear up my business here, and then I'll give you my answer."

"That sounds fair," Scarface said in an even tone. Beside him, Blondie didn't look happy, but made no protest.

"Where should I meet you?"

"The Grapes. It's a little pub in Limehouse. Say Thursday at eight? That gives you two days to deal with your business and make your decision."

"Sounds good to me."

"You'll love the Grapes," Blondie said, giving him a hard tap on the shoulder. "The beer's even better than it is here." With a laugh he moved to the door.

"Remember, Thursday at eight," Scarface said. "And be punctual."

"I'm always that," Bodie said. With a nod, Scarface joined Blondie and they both left.

As soon as the door had closed behind them, Bodie felt all the energy drain out of him. If he'd had any doubts about whether he wanted another mercenary contract, they'd just been erased. Scarface and his friend were exactly the sort of men who'd driven him from Africa in the first place. He wanted nothing more to do with them, or their kind.

But that left him with a bigger problem. They knew who he was, knew where he'd worked. He suspected if he didn't show up at the Grapes on Thursday, they'd track him down and kill him. And if he did show up, and turned them down, he'd fetch up just as dead. He didn't even try to delude himself that they hadn't been responsible for Staunton's death.

And beyond his own safety, he didn't like the sound of the bloke they were working for. Regime change in Africa always meant one thing: people dead. And usually more civilians than soldiers. If he could help prevent that from happening, even this once, he'd consider it well worth the effort.

But how to do it? Ensure his own safety and get Scarface, Blondie and their mysterious employer stitched up? Who was going to believe a soon-to-be ex-merc who'd dropped out of school and run away at fourteen? If he went to the authorities, he'd be laughed out the door before he'd said two words.

Except. He did know someone. A copper. Ray. Doyle.

Doyle might only be a PC, but that CID bloke had thought enough of him to bring him as backup to the Anchor. That must mean his opinion counted for something. Might mean his superiors would listen to him if he told them Bodie could be trusted, could be believed.

So he'd go to the club, find Doyle and tell him about his mysterious would-be employers. With luck, Doyle would listen to him. And if Doyle didn't show at the club, he'd risk going to the Walworth police station and telling his story to Doyle or Rupert or whoever would listen to him.

But Bodie hoped Doyle would come to the club tonight. Because he didn't only want to make sure he was safe, or even to stop a pair of villains from doing their worst. He wanted Doyle at the club for purely selfish reasons, reasons that his stirring cock most definitely understood and appreciated.

Bodie stood and left the pub without another word, hoping he never had cause to darken the door of the Anchor again.

*****

Doyle left the Anchor feeling like he'd been gut-punched, rage burning in his belly. He followed Rupert from the Anchor to the station in a daze, trying to clamp down on the anger that threatened to overwhelm him with each step, with each thought. Anger at Will, for being in the Anchor. Anger at himself, for having the misfortune to fuck someone who would frequent that rubbish tip.

With difficulty, he wrote up his report on Staunton's killing and the afternoon's events. He omitted any mention of Will, since really, what could he say? _I saw the man I fucked last night having a pint in the Anchor_. That'd go down a treat. He delivered the report to Rupert just as his shift ended.

"Ta, Doyle," Rupert said. Doyle wasn't sure what was more extraordinary: that he'd remembered his name or that he'd expressed his gratitude at all. But then Rupert did something even more extraordinary. He reached into a drawer and handed Doyle a small card.

"What's this?" Doyle asked, taking the card.

"Name of my cleaner. Lethem. Nice bloke. Think you'll need him for that." Rupert pointed at his uniform. Doyle looked down and noticed Staunton's blood staining the front. "If you hurry, you should just catch him before he closes. And if he can't get it to you before your shift starts tomorrow, come see me. One of my blokes must have a spare hanging about."

"Thanks," Doyle said, Rupert's consideration catching him by surprise and easing, just a bit, the rage that was boiling through his system.

He walked home, with a side visit to Rupert's cleaner to drop off his uniform jacket, hoping the physical activity would burn off some of the remaining anger. And it did. Because by the time he got to his flat, he'd realised that he wasn't entirely sure who he was angry at. Will, for visiting a pub that was only ever frequented by drunks and villains? Or himself, for lusting after a man who didn't seem to be a drunk, so must be a villain?

And it wasn't a simple lust. One fucking night and the bastard seemed to have infected him, got into his blood and his brain and his balls. He should've suspected there was something up this morning, when he'd woken beside Will and still wanted to snog him senseless. But the full truth of how much he wanted the man had hit him when he'd walked into that pub and found Will sitting with a pint in front of him, looking as if he belonged there.

It wouldn't have hurt quite so much, discovering that Will was a villain, if he hadn't wanted to see the bastard again quite so badly. And even now, knowing Will must be working for the opposition, Doyle still wanted to see him, smell him, touch him. Be fucked by him.

Go to the club or not go? Doyle knew he had no choice at all.

By ten, Doyle was sitting at the bar of Rouge Noire. He had a pint glass clutched in his hand, but his guts were roiling too much with tension to drink anything.

He waited for twenty minutes with no sign of Will. He was beginning to think the bastard would never show, when he noticed a familiar cap of dark hair at the door. Their eyes met immediately, but this time there was more than just heat between them. Will made his way over to where Doyle was sitting, his eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown. Doyle reckoned his own face was even less welcoming.

"Didn't know if you'd come," Doyle said.

"Didn't know if _you_ would." Will looked wary. "I don't imagine your guv'nor would approve of you being seen in a place like this."

"That's my lookout," Doyle said sharply.

"Fair enough." Will raised his hands in surrender. "I reckon we've all got secrets here."

"Yeah, I reckon we do." Doyle stood and took a step closer to Will, "Do you want to tell me yours?"

"I think you already know, petal," Will said, camping it up and batting his eyelashes.

"Don't fuck about," Doyle said, louder than he had intended, drawing a few stares from the men around them. He glared back until their audience lost interest and then returned his attention to Will. "What were you doing at the Anchor?"

"It's complicated," Will said, looking away.

"I'll just bet it is." Doyle moved in even closer to Will, invading his personal space till their faces were nearly touching. "That's my patch, that pub. I know what goes on at the Anchor. Anyone who drinks there is involved in something dodgy. Anyone who goes there must be a villain. And I don't fuck villains."

"Thought I was meant to be fucking you tonight," Will said with a nasty leer.

"Bastard," Doyle spat out. He stood to walk away, cursing himself for being drawn to this man, only to find himself caught in a tight hold. He glared down at the hand gripping his wrist and then up at Will's face with the coldest expression he could muster. "Let go of me or I'll break your arm."

"I'm sorry," Will said, looking genuinely contrite, even if he didn't release Doyle's arm.

"Then let go."

"Not until you've heard me out."

"Why would I bother?" Doyle asked, trying to focus on his anger and ignore the sexual heat rising within him.

"Because it's not what you think." Will paused and bit his lip. "Well, it's not entirely what you think."

"I don't want to listen to your pathetic explanations." Doyle pulled his arm away with a jerk. "I get enough of those on the job."

"I'm not your bloody job."

"Then why were you in the Anchor?"

"I can't explain here."

"Here or nowhere."

"Ray," Will began, and if Doyle had been feeling charitable he'd have almost thought the other man was pleading.

"Nowhere, then." Doyle strode away, only to have Will catch at his arm again.

"Don't go."

"Fuck off, won't you," Doyle said, loudly enough that several men around him looked in his direction.

"No, I won't," Will said, nearly as loudly. "Not until you listen to me."

"Why should I?"

"Because of this." And before Doyle could ask him what he was on about, Will seized hold of him and took his mouth in a brutal kiss.

Doyle resisted for all of a second before he opened his mouth to Will, cursing his weakness as the punters around them clapped and cheered. His cock stirred in his jeans, anger mingling with arousal, and he could feel Will's harden as well. Before they could embarrass themselves further at the bar, Doyle pulled away, grabbed Will's wrist, and dragged him, unresisting, to the back of the club, where the toilets were.

He kicked open the door, pushed Will into the first open stall, ignoring the protests of the men around them, and locked the door behind them. Will was opening Doyle's flies before Doyle'd had time to draw a single breath, and Doyle quickly reciprocated. Pushing his hand up under Will's shirt and revelling in the feel of smooth skin, he ground their exposed cocks together. He felt his own arousal grow with the sounds of Will's breath in his ear, the feel of Will's hand on his arse, on his cock. Will bit and licked at his lips, his tongue. Their teeth clashed together and they shared breath as Doyle peaked and came, taking Will with him.

Once his breathing had slowed down, Doyle pushed himself off Will's chest and leaned against the opposite wall of the stall.

"Christ," he said, unsure quite what madness had possessed him to have it off in a public toilet with a man he'd been ready to kill for the last four hours.

"You're going to be the death of me," Will said, grabbing some bog roll to wipe himself off, and passing a handful to Doyle.

"You keep saying that, but you're not dead yet," Doyle said, wondering just how this man had so gotten under his skin. He cleaned the mess of their semen from his belly with an unconcerned air before zipping his flies.

"You gonna listen to me now? It's important. And it's not just about me making excuses."

"Suppose I have to," Doyle said, finding the worst of his anger had burned away in the fires of his lust. Confusion had taken the place of the anger, confusion and a desire that seemed to be growing rather than fading.

"Right, then. My place."

With no further discussion, Will unlocked the door and led the way out of the toilets and the club. Doyle knew that if he'd been quite in his right mind, he might have been embarrassed by the many appreciative looks they got as they left the club. In his current mood, he didn't give a rat's arse.

*****

This time they took the Tube to Bodie's flat, sitting across from each other on the train. Bodie crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Doyle for the whole trip, trying to sort out what the hell he felt about this bloke he seemed perpetually on heat for. For his part, Doyle leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, staring down at the floor, his expression unreadable. Neither of them spoke.

When they reached Highgate, Bodie got up and gave Doyle's knee a nudge. Doyle followed like an automaton, all the way to Bodie's flat.

He opened the door, led the way to the lounge, and sat on the sofa. He tried not to be disappointed when Doyle sat across the room, in the armchair.

The silence had followed them in from the street, and neither of them spoke for several long minutes. Doyle kept up the inspection of the floor he'd begun on the train, and Bodie kept his eyes firmly on a spot just to the left of Doyle's head, trying to find a way to break through that silence.

Doyle beat him to it.

"Is Will your real name?" he asked, keeping his eyes directed down.

"Yeah," Bodie said. "Sort of. Never use it, though."

"So, what do they call you?"

"Bodie. It's my surname."

"Just Bodie?"

"Just Bodie."

Doyle finally looked up, and Bodie nearly flinched from the force of his gaze.

"What about you?" Bodie asked. "Ray your real name?"

"Yeah."

"Ray Doyle."

"That's me." Doyle swallowed visibly and then spoke again. "What were you doing there? At the Anchor?"

"I told you it was complicated," Bodie said, stalling for time.

"Try me."

"I was looking for a job."

Doyle's eyes clouded with disappointment.

"You are a villain, then."

"No, I'm not!"

"Then what are you?"

"I'm a merc."

"A what?"

"A merc. Mercenary. Soldier for hire."

"Christ, that's worse than being a bloody villain."

"No, it's not." Bodie thought back to Roger and some of the better blokes he'd known in Africa. And then he thought of Krivas and his ilk. "Not always. And anyway, I'm getting out. I've had enough."

"But you were looking for a job at the Anchor?"

"Yeah. Before I decided to get out. Staunton was my contact."

"Staunton?" Doyle's eyebrows nearly vanished into his hairline in surprise. "You have lousy taste in mates."

"Wasn't a mate. Just a contact."

"That what you wanted to tell me? That you knew Staunton?"

"No. Something else. Something worse."

"Worse than knowing a bloke that got himself killed?" Doyle snorted.

"How about running into the blokes who probably killed him?"

"What?" Doyle sat up quickly, interest showing in his eyes.

And so Bodie told him about the men who'd approached him in the Anchor.

"Christ," Doyle said and dragged a hand across the top of his head.

"What is it?"

"Those two sound like they might be the blokes I saw attacking Staunton."

"You saw who killed Staunton?" Bodie raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah. Not enough to identify 'em. Just enough to get a general impression. A tall, dark-haired bloke and a shorter blond one, just like you said."

"Must've been them. I don't believe in coincidences."

"Must've been." Doyle looked at him, scepticism clearly visible in his eyes. "So, what were you planning on doing with this information? Besides telling me?"

"Don't worry, I was planning on making an official statement and all. But I didn't want to wander into your nick off the street and tell my story. With my background, they'd be as likely to lock me up as to believe what I told them. Thought I should talk to a copper I know, which put it down to you." Bodie gave a wry smile. "In fact, apart from more than a few one night stands, you're the only person I know in London. In England, even."

"I'm not a one night stand?" There was a husky undercurrent in Doyle's voice that had Bodie abruptly aware of his own skin again.

"Nah. Seen you twice now, haven't I?" Bodie kept his voice steady by sheer force of will. "Three if you count the Anchor."

"That the only reason you came to the club? To grass on Scarface and Blondie?" Doyle played his tongue against his lower teeth in a way that made Bodie lick his lips.

"Not entirely." Bodie leaned forward, drawn towards Doyle like iron filings to a magnet, and with just as much choice in the matter. "Was hoping you'd keep your promise."

"What promise was that, then?"

"That I could fuck you."

Doyle drew in a breath with an audible hiss.

"That a yes or a no?"

"Yes, you unbelievable bastard."

Bodie smiled, stood and held out his hand.

The sex this time was slower, more measured, but no less intense. This time they made it to the bedroom, where Bodie undressed Doyle as if he were an especially anticipated present, and Doyle paid him back in kind. By the time they were both naked, Bodie's cock was as hard as Doyle's, and every caress, to his side, his throat, his arse, made Bodie want to arch back from the sheer pleasure of it.

When he was in danger of coming from just one more touch, Bodie drew away. Doyle smiled, then lay forward on the bed, offering Bodie his arse. Bodie took his time preparing Doyle, using petroleum jelly instead of spit, until Doyle was squirming beneath him. Then, when he was sure neither of them could wait any longer, he sheathed himself in Doyle's body.

He used long, slow strokes, finding the angle that had Doyle panting and rising to his knees to push back against him. Bodie licked and bit at Doyle's shoulder, then reached around and took hold of his cock. He stroked Doyle in time with his own thrusts, and Doyle was soon moaning beneath him, his head tossed back.

Doyle came first, a great tearing cry issuing from his throat. The spasms of his orgasm brought Bodie with him, and Bodie gave voice to his own pleasure, the sound vibrating deep within his chest.

They stayed in that position, joined together, as long as they could manage, but too soon Bodie felt Doyle trembling beneath him, could feel his own muscles straining to support him. Reluctantly, he pulled out of Doyle and cleaned them both up. They collapsed on the bed, and Bodie wrapped himself around Doyle's whipcord form.

"You'll spoil me rotten," Doyle said, clutching at Bodie's hand on his chest.

"You're already rotten," Bodie replied, his light tone belying the words.

"Good thing. Makes us a matched set, doesn't it?"

"Eh, you insultin' me?" Bodie gave Doyle a good-natured nudge.

"Never," Doyle said, then fidgeted in Bodie's arms until he seemed to find a comfortable position. He lay there quietly, facing Bodie, his eyes closed. Bodie might almost have thought he'd fallen asleep, if not for the tension in his body.

"What's on your mind?" Bodie finally asked, after Doyle had given his third great sigh in as many minutes.

"You really getting out of this soldier-for-hire racket?"

"Yeah," Bodie said with great finality.

"What are you going to do instead?"

"Join the army. The recruiter told me the Paras would snap me up.

"Well, they would, wouldn't they? Big, bad bloke like you."

Bodie muffled a laugh in Doyle's hair. They lay, entwined together, until Doyle broke the silence again.

"Why trade in one brand of soldiering for another?"

"Well," Bodie said, drawing out the word while he considered what to say. "Soldiering's all I know. But I can't go back to the mercs. Fighting other people's wars, never sure if you're making things better or worse…it's no way to live."

"And you reckon the British army is going to be better?" Doyle looked mildly sceptical.

"Has to be, doesn't it? Fighting for Queen and country's got to be better than fighting for a bloody pay packet." Bodie ran his thumb across Doyle's lip. "What about you, Doyle? The Met everything you dreamed it would be?"

Doyle snorted. "Don't make me laugh. Some days I wonder why I bother. Feels like I'll never make a difference."

"So, why stick it out?"

"'Cause other days I know I have done. Made a difference. When I put a villain behind bars, or help someone who doesn't have anyone to stand up for them. That's why I joined the Met in the first place." Doyle stuck his face against Bodie's shoulder and gave a great sniff. "I'll tell you what I'd like to do, though. Get your Scarface and Blondie off the street. I wouldn't want to run into 'em on my beat."

"I wouldn't want you to, either. Baby copper like you, with only a stick to protect you from the bad men. You wouldn't last a minute."

"I'll baby copper you," Doyle said, twisting in Bodie's arms and launching a sudden attack.

"I take it back," Bodie said, grabbing Doyle's hands to prevent any further strikes. "Full-grown copper, you are. Mature, even. Positively geriatric."

"Bastard," Doyle said, struggling to free himself from Bodie's grasp. Bodie held onto him only with the greatest difficulty, until they both collapsed, laughing, in a heap.

As he caught his breath, Bodie thought about what Doyle had said. About running into Scarface and Blondie on the job. And he thought about Doyle having seen the two men who killed Staunton. If Doyle had seen them, then they'd seen Doyle. Doyle was a scrapper, no doubt about that, but he wouldn't have a chance against two hard cases with guns. Especially not if the hard cases thought he might be a witness against them. Bodie found an unfamiliar protective instinct budding within him, along with the first glimmerings of a plan.

"Oi" Doyle said, tapping his forehead. "What's going on in that loaf of yours?"

"Was just thinking…I could do more than just give a statement. I could help you out. With catching those two villains, I mean.

"What'd you want to do that for?"

"Told you. I'm a fine, upstanding citizen."

"Pull the other one. It's got bells on." Doyle fixed him with a hard stare. "Now, what are you really on about?"

"Just…" Bodie paused, not quite wanting to admit to his reasons, but unable to avoid it. "Don't like the thought of you coming up against those blokes. You with no gun and all."

"Daft sod," Doyle said, giving Bodie a jab in the ribs that made him wince. "I can look after meself."

Bodie ignored the assault on his person and traced a finger across Doyle's uneven cheekbone.

"Haven't always done the best job, have you?"

"You should see the other bloke," Doyle said, before he trapped Bodie's hand in his own.

"Paid with his bollocks, did he?" Bodie pulled his hand free and then grabbed exactly that portion of Doyle's anatomy.

"Stop that. It's distracting."

"Meant to be."

"Leave off." Doyle batted Bodie's hand away. "Just how do you think you can help catch them, then?"

"They've already given me a time for a meeting. I show up and see if they let on they know anything about Staunton. Or anything else illegal. They're obviously not choirboys. You should be able to find some reason to throw them in the Scrubs."

"I don't know," Doyle said, a sceptical frown on his face. "Don't much like the sound of it. CID is in charge of the investigation, and they're mostly a bunch of wankers."

"Mostly?"

"Well," Doyle said with obvious reluctance, "the DCI doesn't seem a bad bloke. He was the one in the Anchor today."

"Good at what he does?"

"Yeah," Doyle allowed. "I suppose."

"That's settled then. I volunteer to act as a nanny goat. And your lot plays Great White Hunter when the tiger tries to gobble me up."

"You need to take this more seriously. It's bloody dangerous."

"I am taking it seriously," Bodie said, unexpectedly warmed by Doyle's concern. "Don't forget, I'm not some innocent. Been making my living with a gun in my hand since I was seventeen. I can handle myself."

"But you won't have a gun in your hand this time."

"Listen, mate," Bodie said, putting a firm finger on Doyle's chest. "Don't underestimate me. I could tell you stories that'd make your hair curl." Doyle gave a sudden laugh. "What's so funny?"

"Wouldn't take much," Doyle said. Bodie gave him an uncomprehending look. "Making my hair curl, I mean. You should see it when it's longer. Positively unruly, it is."

"Don't change the subject," Bodie asked, as annoyed as he was intrigued, wondering what Doyle would look like with longer hair and curls. "I'm doing this. My idea, my danger, my call."

"All right," Doyle said, his own irritation clear to Bodie. "But if you're doing this, I'm helping."

"How d'you intend to do that?"

"I'll arrange for you to meet with the DCI, but you have to tell him you won't do anything without me as backup."

"Do you think that's smart?"

"C'mon. You want to watch my back? Well, I want to watch yours. I'm a bloody copper, Bodie. You're asking me to remember you're not an innocent. Do me the same courtesy."

"Fair enough," Bodie said, realizing that Doyle was absolutely right. "We do this together."

"Together," Doyle said, nodding in agreement.

"Right, now let's decide what we're going to tell this DCI of yours."

*****

The next morning, Doyle managed to get to the cleaner and pick up his jacket before he was due on shift. The cleaner was a nice enough bloke, full of praise for DCI Rupert and happy to help out another copper.

He got to the station with barely enough time to get his beat assignment from Hensley, then popped round to Rupert's office before he took to the streets. Rupert was sitting at his desk, a cigarette in one hand, a cup of tea in the other.

"Doyle," Rupert said with a nod. "What can I do for you? Need that spare jacket?"

"No, sir," Doyle said. "Your Mr Lethem worked miracles on mine."

"Glad to hear it." Rupert took a puff of the cigarette, then looked back to Doyle. "Something else I can do for you?"

"Yeah," Doyle said with a sniff, unsure exactly what to say. "It's about the Staunton case."

Rupert stabbed out his cigarette and sat up straight.

"You've got something?"

"Yeah. Well, not me exactly. A mate of mine."

"And what does this mate of yours know? Exactly."

"He thinks he might have run into the men that killed Staunton. At least they sound like the two men I saw leaving the alley."

"And just where did this mate of yours run into them?"

"At the Anchor," Doyle said a bit reluctantly, knowing Rupert might not trust anyone who frequented that establishment.

"What are you doing with a mate who drinks at the Anchor, Doyle?" Rupert said with a frown.

"My mate, he didn't know what the place was like, not really." Doyle launched into the story he and Bodie had concocted for Rupert. "See, he's just back from Africa. He's been knocking about down there for years, decided to come back and join the army. A bloke he knew in Africa told him about the Anchor."

"And what has your mate been doing in Africa?"

"Odd jobs, whatever he could pick up," Doyle said, thinking that wasn't exactly a lie. "He was looking for a job to tide him over, and the bloke he knows told him he might find one at the Anchor."

"Oh yeah?" Rupert's face held no judgment, but Doyle knew by now that there were many fathoms of depth beneath that deceptively calm surface.

"Yeah." Doyle swallowed once before his next sentence. The next bit was the trickiest. He'd either have Rupert or lose him in the next minute. "Gave him the name of a bloke to talk to. Staunton."

"And did your mate talk to Staunton?"

"Once. Briefly. On Tuesday. He was supposed to see him again yesterday."

"But Staunton had already turned up his toes."

"Yeah."

"Was your mate at the Anchor when we were there?"

"Yes, sir," Doyle choked out, realizing that this was one thing they hadn't thought to explain.

Rupert said nothing, only made a speculative noise in his throat and sat staring at Doyle, clearly trying to decide if he could trust him. After a long two minutes, Rupert seemed to come to a decision. He stubbed out his cigarette, lit another one, took a deep drag and exhaled the smoke in a long stream.

"I suppose I can't blame either of you for not speaking up in that hole." Doyle felt the pent up tension within himself ease. "Where did he see the men who killed Staunton? At the Anchor?"

"Yeah. They approached him not long after we left. Said they had a job for him."

Rupert said nothing, but only looked at him with a raised brow.

"My friend had a bad feeling about them, so he didn't turn them down flat. He agreed to meet them tomorrow."

"Did he now? At the Anchor?"

"He didn't tell me. Said he wanted to meet with you about them. Make a statement."

"Well, that's the best news I've had all day. Can he come in to the station?"

"He'd rather not."

"I'll just bet." Rupert tore off a scrap of paper, scribbled on it and handed it to Doyle. "Can you get him to that address today? It's a pub in Lambeth. They've got a room in the back that's very private. I use it for meeting people who don't want to come to the station."

"Yeah, no problem."

"I suppose you'll want to come as well. Seeing as he's your mate."

"If you wouldn't mind."

"I doubt it would make any difference if I did." Rupert took a deep drag on the cigarette still hanging from his lip. "Tell him to meet us there at noon. I'll tell Hensley that you'll be with me then."

"Yes, sir."

"Right, then," Rupert said, waving him away, scattering ash from his cigarette across his desk. "Why don't you scarper and give your mate a bell."

"Yes, sir," Doyle said, scrambling to leave the office before Rupert changed his mind.

Doyle and Rupert arrived at the Albert Arms just before noon. The landlord, an amiable old duffer on friendly terms with Rupert, showed them to the room at the back. Rupert whispered in the man's ear before he disappeared, closing the door behind him.

They sat in an almost-uncomfortable silence for only a minute or two before the landlord returned, two pints in his hand and Bodie behind him.

"I believe you're waiting for this gentleman," the landlord said before placing the pints on the table. Bodie eased into the room, sitting beside Doyle, across from Rupert. "I'll bring you a pint in a minute," the landlord said. "Bitter all right?"

"Fine," Bodie said.

There was more silence, and Doyle was uneasily aware that Bodie and Rupert were sizing each other up. Just as he was beginning to wonder if the two of them were going to come to blows, the landlord opened the door once again and deposited Bodie's pint on the table.

"That all, gentlemen?"

"That's fine Jack," Rupert said. "If you could leave us alone for a bit?"

Jack nodded and left.

Rupert took a sip of his pint without letting his gaze leave Bodie.

"So, you're a mate of Doyle's, are you?"

"Yeah. Will Bodie."

"That your real name?"

"It is, actually. William Andrew Philip Bodie. But you can call me Bodie."

"Where are you from, Bodie?"

"Liverpool. Not that you didn't notice the accent."

"Accents can be faked. And there's not much left of yours."

"Haven't been back there for nearly ten years."

"There a reason you haven't been back?"

"I don't like the place. Is that reason enough?"

"Is there a legal reason?"

"What are you getting at?" Doyle finally broke in, looking at Rupert. "He's offered to help us and you're interrogating him?"

"'S all right, Doyle." Bodie put a hand lightly on Doyle's arm, a brief touch that was gone soon enough. "Your DCI is just doing his job. Aren't you, Inspector Rupert?"

"That's right," Rupert said, mildly. "I need to make sure neither your friend nor his information are going to be more trouble than they're worth."

"I'll save you the trouble," Bodie said. "I ran away from Liverpool at fourteen, for the usual boring family reasons. The Liverpool police shouldn't have anything on me except for some kid stuff: shoplifting, fighting, the sort of things boys get up to on a council estate. I stowed away on a merchant ship, worked the Africa trade routes for a while until I jumped ship. I knocked about, doing various unpleasant jobs you don't need to know about. I've done nothing that's considered a crime in Britain, though they're none too fond of me in the Congo or Biafra. Probably don't like me much in Jordan, either. Came back to England because I'd had enough. And decided to take a bit of a holiday in London before I joined the army. I can even give you the name of the recruiter I talked to." Bodie stopped talking and took a sip of his pint. "Will that do?"

"That will more than do, Bodie," Rupert said with a slight smile. "I'd have been satisfied with half that."

"I wanted to make sure you took me seriously."

"Fair enough."

Sitting beside Bodie, Doyle was trying his best not to gape like a fish. Bodie'd told Rupert more in sixty seconds than he'd told Doyle in two days. Though, thinking about it, Doyle realised Bodie had given away all of the surface and none of the depths. Doyle wondered if he'd ever get a chance to plumb those depths.

"So, Bodie, what do you have to tell me?"

Bodie took Rupert through his encounter with the two men at the Anchor, what they'd said and the meet they'd set up.

"You believe these were the two men who killed Staunton?"

"Yeah. I doubt Staunton would have told them about me willingly. Poaching clients is frowned upon."

"I'll just bet," Rupert said, lighting up a cigarette. "Doyle here said you'd arranged a meeting with them tomorrow night."

"Yeah. At a place called the Grapes. It's in Limehouse."

"I know the area. What time?"

"Eight."

"Great," Rupert said. "I can have them picked up, type up the reports and be home by midnight." He started to stand.

"Wait," Bodie said. "You don't just want to pick them up."

"Why not, sonny? They're guilty, aren't they?"

"Probably, yeah, but you don't have any proper evidence."

"What do you know about proper evidence, little jungle rat like you?" Rupert's tone was dismissive.

"I know you don't have any."

"What do you care?"

"I can help you get the evidence you need."

Rupert sat down again and looked hard at Bodie.

"How?"

"Let me keep the meet with them. I'll keep them talking, get them to admit to the killing. Then you can arrest them when they leave."

"You'd be willing to do that?"

"Why not? I'm just a jungle rat, after all. I've done worse."

Doyle could see that Rupert was tempted.

"It might work at that."

"I've just got one condition."

"And what's that, Jungle Rat?"

"I want Doyle as my backup."

"He's just a PC. Practically still wet behind the ears." Rupert looked over at Doyle almost apologetically. "Sorry, Doyle, but you know it's true. Let me send one of my men in with him."

"I won't do it without him." Bodie's good-natured agreeableness vanished in an instant.

"I'll bang you up for obstructing justice," Rupert said, his expression hardening.

"Try it and you won't get another word out of me."

"Why Doyle?" Rupert asked, clearly exasperated.

"I trust him."

"Christ," Rupert said. He inhaled on his cigarette and then stabbed it out in the ashtray. "Don't suppose I can convince either of you that this is a bad idea, can I?"

Doyle shook his head, and beside him Bodie did the same.

"Fine. Doyle, you're Bodie's backup."

"Thank you, sir." Doyle had to restrain himself from cheering.

"Don't thank me until this is all over. I'll tell Sergeant Hensley I need you in plain clothes tomorrow. Wear something scruffy, won't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you," Rupert said, pointing a finger at Bodie. "You'll do what I tell you and stay out of trouble, right?"

"Yes, sir," Bodie said in best military fashion. Doyle was surprised he didn't throw a salute.

They spent the next half hour going over the plan for the next night. Doyle would arrive well ahead of time and stake out a booth near the back of the pub. Bodie would show soon after and take a front table, visible from Doyle's position. Doyle would have a radio, ready to call in Rupert and his men if it all went pear-shaped. Rupert and two of his DCs would be parked on a nearby side street, waiting to move in.

"So, are you going to record what they say?" Bodie asked when their plans were nearly complete. He was munching on a pickled onion from the ploughman's he'd ordered.

"You've been watching too many James Bond films," Rupert said with a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm a poor DCI in a local nick. Can't afford the fancy equipment. No, you'll have to remember what they say and be prepared to testify at the trial. And it wouldn't go amiss if you got them to tell you about where we can find any evidence they might have left lying about."

"Oh," Bodie said, looking to Doyle like a kid who's been told he can't play with his favourite toy.

Rupert looked at his watch and swore.

"Christ, I'm due back at the station. Doyle, you stay with Bodie. Go over everything one last time. I'll see you at the station tomorrow morning." And without any further ado, Rupert was gone.

That was all they should have done: gone over the plans one last time and then left. But then Doyle never did like following rules. So after they'd finished discussing what would happen at the Grapes, he kicked Bodie's foot under the table.

"You doin' anything tonight?" Doyle asked.

"Nah. Just catching up on me beauty sleep."

"Sleep's overrated." Doyle took a final pull from his glass. "Want me to come over?" He tried to keep his tone nonchalant.

"Think that's smart, Constable?"

"Might not be smart, but I bet it'd be fun." Doyle let a grin split his face.

"Christ, you're insatiable." Bodie's tone was more admiring than exasperated, Doyle was pleased to note.

"Not really. Been nearly twelve hours since I've 'ad ya."

"You didn't have me twelve hours ago."

"Been had by you, then. That better?"

"Christ," Bodie repeated, burying his head in his hands.

"That a yes?" Doyle pushed.

"Yes," Bodie blurted out. "It's a yes. Are you happy?"

"Ecstatic," Doyle said. And he was. "I'll bring some takeaway."

"You'll bring better than that. A bottle of scotch." Bodie stood and poked him in the chest. "Good stuff."

"Then you better have food in. I'll be coming straight off my shift and I'll be ravenous."

"I will. Nine o'clock. Don't be late." Bodie made for the door.

"I won't be."

Doyle wasn't late. He showed up at Bodie's flat at exactly nine, a bottle of Glenfiddich under his arm. Bodie's idea of having food in was cheese on toast, but neither of them cared. They tumbled into bed as soon as they'd eaten, glasses of scotch sitting on the bedside table as they took their pleasure in each other's bodies.

Hours later, when the bed was ruined by sweat and semen, they finally slowed down. Doyle lay against Bodie's chest, wrapped in the other man's arms and legs, enjoying the bright burn of the scotch on his tongue.

Bodie played one hand through Doyle's hair, the sensation making Doyle arch his head back for more. "Were you serious?" Bodie asked. "About your hair curling?"

"When it's longer, yeah." Doyle took another swallow of scotch. "You should've seen me in art college."

"Art college?" Bodie blurted out. Doyle turned his head and saw the look of surprise on Bodie's face. "You never."

"I did. Was there nearly a year."

"Why'd you quit?"

"Didn't quite belong."

"Scruff like you, I don't wonder. Mind you, you don't seem to belong in the Met either."

"I do, more than you can imagine," Doyle said, but didn't elaborate. He wasn't always sure himself why he hung on in a job that frustrated him so often, but he did know that he needed to be there.

"Rupert's not bad."

"Yeah, he's come up trumps. Would never have thought it. Much better than my sergeant. I get up his nose every chance I get. Hate taking orders from the jumped up little bastard. 'Yes sir, no sir, three bags full, sir.'"

"Christ, you'd go down a treat with the mercs," Bodie said, laughing. "Be shot for insubordination your first week."

"Didn't think mercenaries had much use for discipline."

"Soldiering's soldiering. You have to follow the chain of command."

"Doesn't sound like my cuppa at all."

"No, it doesn't," Bodie agreed.

Doyle let himself enjoy a few last minutes in Bodie's hold, then started to pull away.

"I should get going. Need a good night's sleep. Don't want to show up at the nick looking shagged out."

Bodie tightened his grip. "Don't suppose you can stay the night." Bodie's voice sounded so hopeful that Doyle nearly relented, but he knew it was a bad idea.

"No. Really shouldn't have come at all."

"I'm glad you did." Bodie gave him one last squeeze and then let him go.

"Me too." Doyle retrieved articles of clothing from where they were scattered on the floor and began to get dressed. "We shouldn't meet up again until after this is all over."

"I know. More's the pity."

"Don't suppose I'll see you much after that. You'll be off in the army."

"Yeah," Bodie said without enthusiasm.

"I'll give you a proper send-off, though," Doyle said. He bent forward and gave Bodie a long deep kiss, then straightened and pulled his jumper on over his head.

"You bloody well better," Bodie said, pulling Doyle back down for another kiss.

It was only with the greatest of difficulty that Doyle managed to disentangle himself from Bodie's arms, and it took all the willpower he had to walk out of the flat.

*****

Once the door closed on Doyle with a firm click, Bodie lay staring at the ceiling, wishing Doyle hadn't had to leave and wondering when he'd gone so bloody soft, pining for a man he'd known less than a week. Still, he was too disciplined to lie awake for the rest of the night. Staying awake the night before battle did you no good, and he'd long since learned the trick of sleeping, no matter how keyed up he was.

He woke the next morning with a quiet buzz of adrenaline humming through his veins, not enough to distract, but enough to heighten his senses. In spite of the sense of anticipation, he kept to his regular routine. After all, he had the whole day to fill until he made his way to the Grapes.

He went down to the newsagent to get the day's paper and read it over tea and toast. In the afternoon, he went for a run in the Queen's Wood, the physical activity helping to burn off some of his excess adrenaline. For dinner, he had a steak and kidney pie at the pub round the corner, the cheese on toast he'd made for Doyle pretty much having exhausted his cooking repertoire. Then he went back to his flat and prepared for his visit to the Grapes.

He dressed for a fight, black trousers and poloneck that allowed for easy movement, a black leather jacket that would turn all but the sharpest knife. And one more thing.

He reached under the bed and pulled out a sturdy steel box, and then unlocked it with a key hidden in the bottom of his sock drawer. Several guns, numerous knives and one grenade lay within. Smuggled into the country for him by a friendly ship's captain, the weapons were his protection, acquired in case a former enemy or colleague came after him. And now he hoped they would keep both him and Doyle safe as well.

He looked regretfully at the guns—the Beretta, the Browning, the Tokarev—but knew he couldn't risk taking any of them. It was far too likely that Scarface or Blondie would pat him down, and he didn't reckon Rupert would be too pleased if he was caught with a gun either. But he thought he might just be able to slip one of the knives through.

The jagged-edged, long-bladed hunting knife was out of the question, as was the Jambiya he'd picked up in Damascus, its curved blade gleaming brightly. But the pocket knives had potential. He picked up one of the mid-sized ones. Closed, it fit easily into his palm. He hefted it in his hand, judging its weight, then snapped it open. Yeah, this one would work.

He ran his finger along the blade's edge, checking its sharpness, and then reached for his whetstone.

The Grapes was a narrow little pub in Limehouse that was even more disreputable looking than the Anchor. But where the Anchor exuded an air of danger, the Grapes and its patrons were enveloped in an atmosphere of overwhelming hopelessness. The interior looked as if it hadn't been cleaned since the Ripper trod the alleys of neighbouring Whitechapel, with cobwebs hanging from tatty bric-a-brac. The regulars were as sad a collection of no-hopers as Bodie had ever seen. Doyle was nowhere in sight, and neither were Scarface and Blondie.

Bodie ordered a pint at the bar, one sip confirming that it was even worse than the beer at the Anchor, and took a table in the corner with clear sight of both the door and the booths in the back. Unlike the crew at the Anchor, the Grapes' regulars ignored him, which probably explained why Scarface had chosen the place to meet. None of this lot would put their oar in if something went wrong. You could probably split the prime minister's head open in the Grapes and its denizens would swear they'd never seen a thing.

Several minutes later, Scarface and Blondie arrived. They quickly established their presence in the pub, two sleek sharks in a tank full of guppies. Though no one looked up, Bodie could feel the atmosphere subtly shift, as if even the dolts who drank here could tell predators had entered their domain.

Their targets had arrived, but where the fuck was Doyle? He was supposed to have been here well in advance. Bodie scanned the pub one more time, hoping he'd just missed seeing him, but he was nowhere in sight.

Scarface nodded at Bodie, joined him at his table, and sent Blondie to the bar for drinks with a flick of a finger, but he didn't speak.

And that was when Doyle walked through the door. He was looking scruffier than usual in ragged jeans, a well-worn t-shirt and a ratty bomber jacket, clothes that had obviously been chosen to help him blend in with this crowd. Bodie fancied he was panting too, just a bit.

In spite of his shabby clothes, or perhaps because of them, Bodie thought that he'd never seen Doyle look so fine, all long legs and easy grace and his eyes even more exotic than usual. _Christ, you're a sad bastard, he thought. Be going down on one knee in front of him, next, offering him your hand_. That absurd thought nearly brought a smile to his face, but he quickly schooled the impulse. He was supposed to be a hard man, not a besotted kid. He shook his shoulders out, to get himself back in the game.

Doyle moved into the pub and Bodie held his breath, hoping that neither Scarface nor Blondie recognised him as the copper from the alley, and wishing that the narrow confines of the place gave Doyle some room to avoid the pair of them. But Blondie showed no signs of recognition, just took the two pints the barman handed him and headed back to their table.

Doyle got his own pint and took up residence in a booth at the back of the room, in easy view of Bodie's table.

Scarface didn't speak until Blondie was seated at the table and they'd both taken a sip of the crap beer. "Mr Bodie," he said, his voice low and resonant and suggestive of danger. "Have you made a decision about our offer?"

"Thought it over, and I'm interested." Bodie paused, not wanting to appear too eager. "But I've still got a few questions."

"Understandable," Scarface said, nodding.

"Don't suppose you can give me the details yet?"

"No," Scarface said, shaking his head. "Not until you've accepted the job. And even then not for a few weeks."

"Thought as much." Bodie took another sip of beer, trying not to grimace as he did so. "Any possibility of an advance on my pay? Only I've got a few expenses that could stand clearing up."

"I think our employer would be willing to part with an advance. Say two hundred pounds?"

"That'd do."

"Is that all?"

"Almost. There's just one more thing I'd like to know." Bodie leaned back in his chair and tried to look as nonchalant as he could before he asked his next question, knowing he was taking a hell of a risk, but thinking it might pay off. "Either of you two have anything to do with Staunton's death?"

Blondie immediately turned a deep shade of red and started to splutter. At the back of the pub, Bodie could see Doyle put his hand in his jacket, no doubt preparing to call in the troops if necessary. But the threatened attack didn't happen. Scarface scowled and put a hand on his younger companion's to restrain him.

"You do take chances, Mr Bodie."

"'S why you want to hire me, isn't it?" Bodie said mildly. "And don't get me wrong. I don't care if you did top Staunton. That's your own lookout and his. I just don't like to start a working relationship with too many of the wrong sort of secrets. Don't want to tell me who's doing the hiring or where I'm expected to go? That's par for the course. But keep it quiet that you've done in someone else in the trade and I might start thinking my own neck was for the chop."

Scarface looked at him hard for several long seconds. Bodie began to wonder how fast Doyle could get Rupert and his men in here if Scarface decided to have a go at him. And just when he'd decided that retreat might be his best option, Scarface started to laugh loudly.

"You aren't a disappointment, Mr Bodie," he said when his laughter had finally faded. "We were warned you were…spirited."

"I'll bet no one used that word," Bodie said, relaxing just a bit now that the danger seemed to have passed.

"You're right. They were less diplomatic. But the sentiment was the same. And to answer your question, let's just say that Mr Staunton may have at some time incurred the displeasure of my employer. And that my colleague and I may have taken the time to express that displeasure. Forcefully."

"Remind me not to disappoint your employer," Bodie said. That hadn't been quite a definitive admission of guilt, but it certainly meant they had the right men. And if he could stick with the bastards a bit longer, encourage their trust, he might just get a real confession. Or real evidence.

"I'm sure you won't." Scarface took a sip of the glass in front of him and grimaced in distaste. "The lager here is bloody awful. We might be better off somewhere more private and with better choice of beverage to finalise our plans."

"Sounds good to me," Bodie said, secretly hoping that Rupert would know enough to follow them.

As they rose, Bodie caught Doyle's eye and shook his head slightly enough that he hoped his two companions wouldn't notice. He didn't want Rupert and his lads swooping in quite yet. Not until he had something a bit more concrete to give them.

Doyle's only response was a blink, but Bodie knew, just knew, that he understood.

As they were standing, Blondie put his hand on Scarface's shoulder, leaned over and whispered in his ear. Bodie didn't reckon that could mean anything good, but he didn't see any immediate danger. The three of them made their way through the door, but as soon as they hit the pavement outside, Scarface took hold of Bodie's elbow.

"Wait here," he said. "Just for a minute."

"Why?" Bodie asked.

Scarface didn't respond at all, he simply put a finger to his lips, and that gesture, so incongruously mild in that cruel face, gave Bodie a very bad feeling indeed.

They waited for a minute, perhaps two, and just as Bodie was beginning to relax, to think that what he feared might not happen, Doyle emerged from the pub. Blondie immediately grabbed him by the arm and shoved a gun in his side before Bodie could blink.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Bodie asked harshly, judging whether he could jump Blondie without Doyle being shot and deciding he couldn't.

"Thought I recognised this fucker when we walked in," Blondie said. "Couldn't place him at first, but I have now. He's filth."

"So he's a cop. Doesn't mean you pull a gun on him." Bodie could hear his own heart pounding in his chest.

"He's not just any cop. He was down in Southwark Tuesday. He's the one that saw us do in Staunton."

And there, at least, was their confession. If either he or Doyle made it out of this alive to testify.

"You've got it wrong," Doyle said. "I'm a mechanic. Just came in for a drink after work."

"Are you, now?" Scarface said, calmly, then reached inside Doyle's jacket and pulled out his radio transmitter. "What's a mechanic doing with a police radio?"

"It's just a kid's walkie talkie," Doyle said and Bodie couldn't help admire how cool he was, even with a gun stuck in his side.

Scarface searched the rest of Doyle's pockets, finally emerging with the wallet holding Doyle's warrant card.

"And I suppose this is just a kid's decoder ring." He looked carefully at the card. "Well, PC Doyle, you're coming with us."

"You can't just kidnap me."

"I'm afraid we can," Scarface said. He dropped the R/T on the ground and smashed it with his heel, then let Doyle's warrant card fall on top of it.

Bodie's mind raced, trying to find a way out of this that didn't end up with Doyle dead on the pavement in a pool of his own blood. Rupert seemed to be nowhere in sight, meaning that Doyle hadn't yet contacted him to tell him what was happening. And Bodie had no room to work. Blondie was too close to Doyle, and it would take too little pressure on one finger to fire the gun. He didn't even try to delude himself that he could talk either of these men out of kidnapping Doyle. Looking at Blondie, Bodie could see he wasn't quite sane, was probably looking forward to killing Doyle. And Scarface was as cold a fish as he'd ever encountered.

No, the best chance they had was for Bodie to stick with Doyle and these two nutters and look for a better opportunity to act later. Or hope that Rupert sensed something had gone wrong and showed up with his crew.

"We gettin' out of here, then?" Bodie hoped his words would allay any suspicion of his erstwhile associates without having Doyle doubt him. "I don't fancy waiting around until the rest of the Old Bill arrive."

"We're going to take PC Doyle to a little place we know," Scarface said. "You don't have to come with us. We can schedule our meeting for a later time."

"No bloody way," Bodie put on his hardest voice and nodded at Doyle. "That one's seen me with you. I want to make sure I'm not dragged down with the two of you."

"Fair enough," Scarface said. "You can come. But make yourself useful and grab his other arm."

Bodie did as he was told, and felt Doyle trembling beneath his touch. He made brief eye contact with Doyle, hoping he would take some encouragement from that in spite of the black look Bodie wore on his face. Doyle didn't react at all.

They frog-marched Doyle down the pavement, stopping beside a battered Ford Cortina. Scarface unlocked the car and Blondie bundled Doyle into the back seat, the gun still held on him. Bodie took the front passenger seat, with Scarface doing the driving. From the time they grabbed Doyle until they pushed him into the car, Bodie had kept his eye on the street, hoping that Rupert would arrive to stage a mad rescue, but there was no sign of the DCI or any of his men.

As they pulled onto the street, Bodie risked a quick glance back to Doyle. Doyle's eyes were wide with apprehension, and Bodie wished he could talk to him, tell him it was going to be all right, that he'd get him out of this.

Because Bodie was damned if his first attempt at doing the right thing on his return to England was going to end in the death of a man he'd come to care rather too much about.

*****

From the moment he opened his eyes in the morning, nothing went right for Doyle. His alarm hadn't gone off, so he was late before he started. He over-crisped his toast and under-steeped his tea. The hot water heater, dodgy at the best of times, packed it in, and he had to take a very short, very cold shower.

By the time he arrived at the nick, fifteen minutes late, his hair still damp, he was in a very bad mood indeed.

The afternoon, at least, passed relatively calmly. Apart from Hensley being in a snit because Rupert had requested Doyle's services for CID. But then, Hensley was usually in a snit about something, so Doyle didn't let it bother him. Other than that, he spent the day with the other blokes in CID, going over the plans for the evening and generally acting as dogsbody to help them with some of their other investigations.

He was pleased to discover Jones and Peters weren't quite the daft gits he'd thought them. They still went to extra effort to wind him up, though. Mind you, by the time dusk began to fall, he was doing the same thing to them, so it all evened out.

And at least all of it took his mind off worrying about Bodie. If he was busy enough, he didn't have time to be anxious about the stupid bastard putting himself in the line of fire.

They set off for the Grapes in plenty of time. Rupert wanted to get there at least fifteen minutes early, so Doyle could establish himself in a booth where he'd be less likely to catch the eye of Bodie's two villains, Scarface and Blondie. Rupert and the two DCs would pull the car around the corner, on Ropemaker's Fields, and wait for Doyle to call them on the R/T they'd given him. You couldn't always trust the bloody thing, they warned him, and it worked better outside than in, but it should do the trick. And anyway, they wouldn't be far away.

But then things started going wrong again.

First it was the traffic backed up waiting to cross Tower Bridge. Nothing alarming. They had plenty of time. But then Rupert's car stalled.

They were across the bridge, had turned on to Wapping High Street to follow the Thames to the pub, when the engine simply sputtered and died. Horns honking behind them, Rupert swore and twisted the key several times, but the engine would barely turn over and refused to start.

Frantic, Doyle helped Jones and Peters push the car to the side of the road, out of the way of traffic, and then peered anxiously over Peters' shoulder as he popped the bonnet and began to work industriously checking wires and connections and hoses.

"Don't get your knickers in a twist," Jones said, patting Doyle on the back. "Chas is a whiz with motors. He'll have it right as rain in no time."

"I hope so."

"Don't worry, Doyle," Rupert said, joining them in front of the car. "We'll be there soon enough to keep an eye on your Bodie."

Five minutes passed, then ten, and Peters seemed no closer to fixing the problem. When it was just gone quarter to eight, Doyle felt he could wait no longer.

"I've got to go," he told Rupert. "I've got to go now."

Rupert checked his watch, his mouth compressed into a grim line. "Yeah, you're right. Go." He shooed Doyle away. "I'll call in to the station, see if they can get a second car to us. We'll be there as soon as we can."

Doyle didn't wait for Rupert to stop talking before he was off and running. He kept his eye out for a taxi, but at this time of night, in a neighbourhood this rough, there were none to be had. He ran the whole way, his heart thumping in his chest, his lungs heaving with effort by the time he was in sight of the Grapes.

At the door of the pub, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath, to calm himself, to thrust aside the images of Bodie beaten, Bodie dead, that had been haunting him the entire run through dark city streets.

One final deep breath and he pushed open the doors of the pub.

Far from being dead, Bodie was sitting at a table across from Scarface, looking cool and dangerous, dressed head to toe in black. Doyle caught his eye briefly and then headed over to the bar. Blondie was there as well, waiting for his drinks. Since the tight quarters of the pub gave him no room to avoid the man, Doyle kept his fingers crossed that Blondie wouldn't recognise him from the alley, nearly sighing in relief as the other man merely collected his drinks and headed back to his table without a second glance at Doyle.

Doyle got his own pint and moved over to a booth at the end of the long narrow bar where he could keep an eye on Bodie and his companions, even if he couldn't hear what they said. Things appeared to go smoothly for the first minute or two, but then Bodie said something and leaned back in his chair, wearing the smug look that Doyle was beginning to know too well. Whatever he'd said didn't go down too well with Blondie. The little git looked like he was about to lose his rag and take a shot a Bodie in spite of the press of people in the pub.

Doyle put his hand in his jacket, hoping the R/T would work in the building, hoping that Rupert and the others had managed to get in position. But then Scarface laughed and Blondie calmed down, and it seemed they were all lads together again. Doyle wondered what Bodie had said to set off the other man, wondered if he'd got an admission of guilt from him.

When they finally stood to leave, Bodie caught Doyle's eye once again and gave a slight shake of his head. Doyle somehow knew without exchanging a word with him that Bodie wanted more time with these fuckers, that he wanted to see if he could get more out of them.

Doyle waited till the three of them had left the pub and then pulled out the R/T to report what he'd seen to Rupert. He got nothing but static. He hoped that meant only that the radio wasn't working inside, even as he feared that Rupert wasn't yet in position. Still, no need to panic. He hung back for a minute, enough time for Bodie to get his companions away from the pub, and then headed for the door to try Rupert again from outside.

He'd no sooner set foot outside the pub when he was grabbed. He turned to see Blondie, and tensed himself to knock the man's head in, when the smug bastard stuck a gun in his ribs. Stunned, he at first wondered if Bodie was in on it, if Bodie had been the one who'd informed on him. But the look on Bodie's face, and his first words, told him Bodie hadn't expected this either.

The next few minutes passed in a surreal blur for Doyle, as he was pushed down the street, bundled into an old Cortina and driven away, the blond bastard still holding the gun on him. He wondered where Rupert was, if he'd got a second car from the station, if he and Peters and Jones had made it to Limehouse. He hoped against hope they had somehow seen him, were even now following the car. And failing that, he hoped he and Bodie together would manage to get themselves out of this mess.

Any last doubts he might have had about Bodie were erased when the man chanced a look back at him. To anyone else, Bodie's expression might have seemed that of an unrepentant hard man, but Doyle could see beneath the surface, see the concern and the merest hint of fear.

Scarface was at the wheel and drove them through Limehouse, across the river at Tower Bridge and into Southwark. They passed through the narrow rundown streets with derelict storefronts and abandoned buildings, finally stopping in front of a row of deserted houses, their windows boarded up or broken, the doors all padlocked. Scarface made for one of the middle houses. He looked around, making sure they weren't being watched, and then put a key in the padlock. Within seconds they were inside, the door shut behind them.

Doyle felt as if he'd gone blind at first. With the windows shut up, the inside of the house was pitch black. He couldn't have seen his own hand in front of his face. He heard the sound of footsteps and a click, and then a single bare bulb flared into life above them.

The light only exposed the utter squalor of the place. The inside of the house was even more decayed than its exterior, lathe exposed where walls had been kicked in, piles of rubble here and there, and a jumble of wood that might once have been furniture in one corner of the lounge.

Doyle didn't have much time to contemplate the main floor. Blondie half pushed, half dragged him forward, and then down a set of ramshackle stairs to a basement lit by another bare bulb. The basement bore more than a passing resemblance to a dungeon. The floor was firmly packed dirt and the walls were hewn stone covered in a slick sheen of condensation.

Doyle was thrown to the floor, the air knocked out of him. Blondie and Scarface made swift work of binding his hands and feet with sturdy rope. Doyle couldn't restrain a gasp or two as the rough jute cut into his flesh.

Through it all, Bodie remained silent, a still presence standing to one side, revealing nothing of his emotions. He wished he could appeal to Bodie, beg him to untie him, to get him out of here, but he knew that would do neither of them any good. If Scarface had even a suspicion that Bodie knew him, was working with him, neither of their lives would be worth a thru'penny bit. With difficulty, Doyle wrenched his attention from Bodie to Scarface and Blondie. They were the ones he really had to worry about.

"What, no gag?" Doyle asked, looking at Scarface.

"No need," the man answered with a wicked smile. "You can scream all you like in this place and no one will hear you. And besides, we want you to talk."

"Talk about what?"

"What were you doing, following us, Plod?" the blond asked, punctuating his question with a kick to Doyle's ribs.

"I wasn't following you," Doyle said, teeth clenched against the pain. "Just stopped off for a drink."

"Tell us another, Plod." The man kicked again.

"'M not lying, you stupid bastard." Kick. "Christ." Punch.

They kept it up for ages, for far too fucking long, as far as Doyle was concerned, questions and punches, threats and kicks. He tasted the blood as his lower lip split and gasped as Scarface punched his damaged cheekbone. He very nearly screamed when Blondie almost wrenched his arm out of its socket, and finally did scream when a flurry of punches landed on his right kidney. But through it all, Doyle kept to his story. He'd only stopped in for a pint. He'd lied about being a PC because he was scared. He didn't know who they were, and what did they mean, kidnapping innocent people off the street.

He didn't crack because he knew that if he told them the truth, that the Southwark CID were on to them, knew they'd killed Staunton, then he really would be dead. And more than his own life, he feared for Bodie's. He worried that if they were no longer working him over, they'd start to think about their new recruit and how a PC had known to find them at the Grapes in the first place. Better that he suffer everything they could throw at him than that he drop Bodie into it. And it wasn't that bad, nothing he couldn't handle. He'd taken worse beatings on the streets of Derby as a teen.

But then Scarface turned to Bodie and things suddenly got so much worse.

"I think our policeman is in need of fresh encouragement." Scarface said. "Would you like to have a try?"

"Not really my thing," Bodie said from the shadows in the corner where he stood. "Interrogation."

"Consider it the first order from your new employer," Scarface said, with a look that brooked no opposition.

"All right, then." Bodie's voice was flat, noncommittal. He moved into the dim circle of light thrown by the single bulb, and Doyle could see that his face, like his voice, was blank of all emotion. If Doyle didn't know him, hadn't seen him smile, seen him laugh, seen him naked and aroused, he might have been afraid of that look. And maybe, in spite of all that, he was just a bit afraid anyway.

Bodie leaned down beside him and gripped his t-shirt in one fist.

"Why were you following my mates, here?"

"Wasn't," Doyle said. The resulting punch made Doyle's head ring.

"We don't believe you, mate."

"I don't care if you believe me. It's the truth."

This time, the punch was aimed at his gut and drove all the air out of his lungs. Bodie let go of him and Doyle rolled into a ball, struggling to breathe. Once he'd caught his breath again, Bodie grabbed hold of him and shook him.

"You might as well tell us everything. We're going to find out anyway."

"Go to hell," Doyle snarled.

"Won't be me making that trip, mate," Bodie said, a dark look on his face. Doyle sucked in a deep breath, wondering just what Bodie was capable of, what he'd feel he had to do. Because Doyle knew, knew without question, that Bodie had pulled those last two punches, and they'd still hurt like fuck.

As Bodie pulled back his fist again, Doyle looked him in the eye, trying to see the man he knew behind the grim mask he now wore, trying to restore the connection between them.

And then Bodie brought his fist down on his ribs and all thought fled, chased out by pain and misery.

*****

Seven years Bodie'd spent working in war zones, killing and maiming and destroying for money. He'd done things he hadn't liked, things he didn't think about, things he'd locked in a big box in his head marked "Do Not Open". Those seven years were the reason he'd finally returned to England. He hadn't wanted to add anything more to that box.

Interrogating Doyle had given him enough to start filling a brand new box.

He'd hung back when Scarface and Blondie had brought Doyle down to the basement, hoping Rupert would come to the rescue. As time passed with no sign of the Old Bill, Bodie had realised that he would have to get Doyle out of this himself. So he'd set himself to wait for the moment he could act, when he could take out both Scarface and Blondie without putting Doyle in danger. But the two bastards were professionals and they hadn't left themselves open, even though they had no reason to doubt Bodie was on their side. So he'd exercised his considerable patience, all the while hoping that they wouldn't hurt Doyle too badly. Wouldn't maim him. Wouldn't kill him. That had been bad enough.

But then Scarface had asked Bodie to have a go at Doyle.

Bodie considered himself a hard man, but the thought of inflicting harm on Doyle, a man he was beginning to suspect was more to him than just a willing body with whom to have spectacular sex, nearly made him physically ill.

This wasn't the way it was supposed to go. He'd agreed to do this, suggested it even, to get Scarface and Blondie off the street, to make sure they didn't have a chance to hurt Doyle. Instead, he was going to do the hurting for them. But he knew he couldn't refuse, not if both he and Doyle were going to make it out of this basement alive, so he did it. Closed down his emotions, along with what remained of his conscience, and got on with the job.

He ignored the panic in Doyle's eyes, the pain that had already been inflicted on him, and he gave Scarface a good show. He pulled the punches he could, aimed others at places he knew would cause minimum damage, and hoped it wouldn't last too long.

It lasted long enough.

By the time Scarface finally called a halt, Bodie's knuckles were spattered with blood, both Doyle's and his own, and Doyle was sprawled on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Bodie stood up from where he was kneeling over Doyle and leaned against the staircase, hoping to hide the shakiness he felt in his limbs.

Scarface nudged Doyle with the toe of his shoe, eliciting barely a flinch in response. "I don't think we'll be getting anything out of our young friend for a while," he said, his mouth a moue of distaste.

"Nah," Bodie said, keeping his voice calm even while he clamped down on the murderous fury he felt for Scarface and the loathing he felt for himself. "We should wait for a bit and then start again."

"Too bad," Blondie said. "I was quite enjoying myself."

Red-tinged rage filled Bodie, and he marked the sadistic little bastard for the beating of his life, but he managed to school his features into a complicit smirk.

"I'm going for a slash," Blondie said, heading for the stairs.

"I'll stay with our friend," Scarface said. "Make sure he doesn't get any inconvenient ideas about escaping."

And there it was, Bodie's chance. Together, Scarface and Blondie watched each other's backs instinctively. But if each was alone, then Bodie might just have a chance of taking them both down and getting Doyle out of here.

But which one to try for first?

"Don't tell me this rubbish tip has a working bog?" Bodie said.

"There's a loo out back in the garden," Blondie said helpfully.

"I'll come with you, then. Could do with some fresh air."

Blondie led the way up and out, and headed for the small brick loo at the bottom of the garden. Bodie didn't let him get that far. As soon as they were outside, with the door firmly closed behind them, he moved in fast behind his adversary. He delivered two fast, brutal blows to Blondie's kidneys, and the man went down to his knees with barely a sound. Not giving him any chance to recover, Bodie quickly put him in a chokehold. With practised ease, he used just enough pressure to cut off his air, to impede the flow of blood to his brain, but not enough to crush his windpipe. Much as he would have liked to snap the bastard's neck, he reckoned Rupert would lock him up and throw away the key if he committed murder.

Blondie struggled in his grasp for what seemed a long time until his thrashing finally slowed and stopped and his body went limp in Bodie's hold. Bodie took a second to make sure the bastard was still breathing and a minute to calm himself. And then he pulled out his insurance policy. He'd taped his pocket knife to the small of his back before leaving the flat, hoping it would escape the notice of his would-be employers. As weapons went it wasn't much, and it would be bloody difficult to stop a trained fighter like Scarface with it, but he thought he had a use for it.

He stood at the back of the house and took several deep, calming breaths. And then, hoping he hadn't been gone long enough to arouse Scarface's suspicions, he opened the door and strode back into the lion's den.

Scarface looked up when he came down the stairs and frowned slightly when he saw Bodie was alone. "Where's Derek?" he asked, and Bodie nearly started in surprise. Neither of them had used their names before. He briefly wondered what Scarface's name was.

"Still out in the garden." Bodie nodded back up the stairs. "Having some problems taking care of business, if you know what I mean."

Scarface nodded, seeming to accept the explanation, and began pacing the floor. "Our guest is starting to come round," Scarface said. "We can get back to work soon."

"Oh yeah?" Bodie went over to Doyle and knelt down beside him, placing his body between Doyle and Scarface.

Doyle moaned and cracked one swollen eye open.

"Still looks a bit rough to me."

Doyle reacted to his voice with a scowl and finally seemed to focus properly on him.

"Don't think he'll be coming round for a bit." As he said that, Bodie winked.

Doyle's eyes widened in surprise, and Bodie found the surprise hurt him. Surely Doyle hadn't thought he had really switched sides. But he swiftly suppressed the hurt as Doyle nodded at him and then shut his eyes again, his body going limp in a show of helplessness. At least Bodie hoped it was only a show.

Bodie checked the ropes binding him, taking the opportunity to snap open the knife hidden in his palm and to slip it into Doyle's hand. He was heartened when Doyle took the blade's hilt in a firm grip.

Bodie drew Scarface over to the far corner of the basement, making sure the other man's back was to Doyle and distracting him with a discussion of methods they could use to get Doyle to talk. And all the while he kept an eye on Doyle's movements, watching as he cut through the ropes binding him with agonizing slowness.

He didn't want to act while Doyle was still trussed up. While he was confident of his own abilities, he wasn't absolutely certain that he could take Scarface down as easily as Blondie. Or rather, Derek. Scarface was older and more experienced and, if that scar was any indication, had survived everything the world had thrown at him. Bodie wanted to make sure that if he failed, Doyle at least had a fighting chance to get away.

Doyle's movement finally stopped, and Bodie could see he'd worked free of the ropes. Which meant it was time to act.

Scarface was in the middle of describing a particularly nasty interrogation he'd led in some dirty war or other he'd fought. Bodie didn't even let him finish his sentence. Without warning, he moved in close and swept the man's feet out from under him. Scarface landed with a gasp, but reacted swiftly, dragging Bodie down to the floor with him and landing several sharp blows to the side of Bodie's head.

"Run, Ray!" Bodie called out as he grappled with Scarface, gratified when he heard the sound of Doyle scrabbling on the stairs behind him even as he began to wonder if he had it in him to defeat this man.

Scarface landed another blow to his head that left Bodie reeling, and then Bodie found himself pinned to the floor. His vision began to fade and the blood pounded in his ears as Scarface squeezed his throat.

 _At least Ray's safe, he thought. At least I did that much_.

The world turned grey, the edges going black, and Bodie had one second to think how stupid it was that he'd survived countless battles in Africa only to be killed in a Southwark basement, when everything changed.

There was a flurry of movement from the stairs and a resounding thud, and then Scarface collapsed on top of him. Bodie took in a gulp of air, shook his head, and pushed the bastard off of him. And there, standing above him, was Ray Doyle, beaten and bloody and with a broken off two by four he must have pulled from the debris upstairs held in both hands.

Before either of them could say anything, there was a crash from upstairs and the sound of many feet running through the house. DCI Rupert led the pack that rushed down into the basement, all of them stopping in shock at the scene they found.

"'Bout bloody time you lot showed up," Doyle said, throwing down his makeshift club.

Bodie had only a second's warning before Doyle's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

*****

Doyle woke once in the ambulance, swimming up through layers of pain and nightmare to find Bodie staring at him with grim concern.

 _Don't worry, mate_ , he wanted to say, but what came out was a single word.

"Hurts." Even to his own ears his voice was barely audible, a thin croak.

"Nearly at the hospital," Bodie said, his voice steady and even. "Won't be long now."

Doyle reached out and Bodie took his hand in a firm, warm grip.

 _Sorry_ , he tried to say. _Didn't mean to get caught_. But his lips couldn't form the words and his eyes were closing and soon enough the blackness enveloped him once again.

*****

Bodie would have told anyone who asked that he was a pragmatist. He did what was needed to get through the day and he didn't give it another thought. And anything he was tempted to think about, he stuffed away in a dark corner where not even his subconscious could get hold of it. He'd lived by that code since he'd run off to sea at fourteen.

And now, at the grand old age of twenty-three, he was seeing that code crack, just a bit.

The first small cracks had appeared in the Congo, in Angola, in Jordan, where he'd realised that there were things he'd rather not do. Those cracks had led him back to England, to London. To Ray Doyle.

And now he had new cracks, put there by Doyle himself. Because Bodie wasn't sure how easily he could live with himself after what he'd done to Doyle.

He'd been terrified when Doyle had collapsed in the basement, afraid that he'd misjudged a punch or a kick and hurt Doyle too much. Not that he'd let fear rule him. He'd channelled it, allowed it to give him the energy to help Doyle when he'd have liked nothing so much as to curl up and sleep for twenty-four hours himself. He'd insisted on staying with Doyle in the ambulance, in casualty and even in the ward where they'd moved him for observation.

The worst fear, though, had been the fear that Doyle might hate him. Because if their positions had been reversed, Bodie wasn't sure what he'd be feeling now.

But Doyle had shown no sign of hate. Not in the ambulance, where he'd woken briefly to clutch at Bodie's hand. Not in casualty, where he'd let Bodie take charge with seeming gratitude. And not in the ward, where, in the middle of the night, he'd bestowed on Bodie the gift of one particular smile that had touched Bodie to his core.

But still Bodie was uncertain. Uncertain of what Doyle felt, uncertain of what he himself wanted.

The next morning saw no resolution of that uncertainty. Though battered, bruised and clearly still hurting, Doyle was pronounced fit enough to leave in time for them both to be collected by DCI Rupert and taken back to the station. As soon as they got there, they were separated. Rupert's two DCs, Jones and Peters, herded Doyle away to make his report, while Rupert himself led Bodie off to a separate interrogation room.

As soon as he sat down across from Rupert, Bodie knew this was going to be more than the friendly sharing of information. Rupert grilled him mercilessly, and not only about what had happened in the pub and after. He also took apart Bodie's story about what he'd been doing in Africa and how he'd ended up in the Anchor. And Bodie didn't blame him. He and Doyle were set to become the star witnesses in any trial against Scarface and Blondie, and Rupert wouldn't want any surprises about the background of one of those witnesses. Fortunately, what he'd told Rupert was close enough to the truth that Bodie had no trouble sticking to it.

In between rounds of questions, Rupert disappeared for long stretches, sometimes leaving Bodie with a cup of tea or a sandwich, and sometimes with nothing at all. And once, Rupert returned with another man, middle-aged and ginger-haired, whose manner revealed a military background to Bodie's knowing eye. The man listened carefully while Rupert took Bodie through the same batch of questions he'd answered a dozen times before, then nodded politely and left.

"Who was that?" Bodie asked.

"None of your business, sonny," Rupert said. "And little enough of mine, thank Christ."

Bodie had been knocking about war zones long enough that he could recognise a spook when he saw one. "Ours is not to reason why," Bodie said.

"Or words to that effect," Rupert said, and then returned to yet another round of questioning.

Finally, in the late afternoon with the shadows beginning to lengthen, Rupert closed up his notebook, took a last drag on his latest cigarette and grinned.

"That it, then?" Bodie asked, before taking a sip from a mug of cold tea to ease his throat, raw from hours of talking.

"That's it. I reckon that's more than enough to put those blokes away for a good stint."

"I can go?"

"Yeah. Someone'll ring when the case goes to trial. If it goes to trial."

"Any chance it won't do?"

"No idea," Rupert said with a noncommittal shrug, making Bodie wonder again about the spook that had been in the interrogation room and just what this had all been about. He doubted he'd ever learn the whole story.

"I won't be in London much longer. I'm joining the army soon. Next week, in fact."

"Even better. The army will be better at tracking you down than we ever could be."

Rupert thanked him, friendly now that the job was done, and showed him the way out.

Wandering the halls, all Bodie's doubts, about Doyle, about himself, came crashing back down on him. He wondered where Doyle was. In the station? At home? He wondered if Doyle would ring him up. He wondered if he had the nerve to see Doyle again or if he should just disappear into the army without a word.

Descending the staircase that led from the first floor to the main hall of the station, Bodie caught a glimpse of the subject of his thoughts. Doyle looked like something the cat had dragged in, gobbled down and coughed up again, his face bruised and swollen, his clothes fit only for the rubbish tip. He was staring at Bodie, and if his expression wasn't one of hatred, neither was it entirely welcoming. Bodie stopped, one foot still in the air, wondering if he had the courage to continue down the stairs.

Then Doyle smiled.

That smile held hope and trust, affection and confidence. It gave Bodie the strength he needed to move forward until he found himself at Doyle's side.

"I'm sorry," he blurted out, needing to say that before anything else.

"No need." Doyle brushed away the words with a gesture.

"I mean it, Doyle." He held the attention of those green eyes, willing him to understand how important it was, this expiation of his sins.

Doyle's smile vanished. He blinked and narrowed his eyes as if taking Bodie's measure. And then he nodded once. "I know," he said firmly. "And I'm sorry, too. For getting you mixed up in all of this."

"Not your bloody fault."

"You'd never have volunteered for this if it hadn't been for me."

"I'm the one who knocked the shite out of you, in case you've forgotten."

"Those other two did worse. And I wouldn't have got out of that basement without you, Bodie, so you can take that guilt and shove it up your arse." Doyle eyes sparked green fire.

The sudden display of temper snapped the tension inside Bodie. He abruptly started laughing, hard enough that the desk officer looked at him with suspicion. He schooled his feelings, managing to reduce the laughter to mild chuckles. Through it all, Doyle looked at him as though he were mentally deficient.

"All sweetness and light you are, Raymond."

"And you're a mad bastard," Doyle said sharply, but Bodie thought he could see a trace of humour in his eyes, at the corner of his mouth.

"You done for the day?" Bodie asked.

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." Bodie switched over to an atrocious posh accent. "Shall we get out of here before we attract the attention of the natives?"

"I _am_ one of the fucking natives, you loony," Doyle said, but followed him out the door.

Once outside, they stood on the street in the late afternoon sunshine as if they were both uncertain what their next step should be.

"You got any plans?" Bodie asked, suddenly hesitant lest those plans did not include him.

"Yeah. I want to sleep for a week. Or a few days, at least. Rupert's got me off work until Tuesday afternoon." Doyle shrugged and winced at the movement. "I'm knackered and sore and I just want a bed."

"Oh," Bodie said, hoping his disappointment didn't show. But Doyle must have seen something of what he felt, because he knocked Bodie on the arm and then looked around carefully to make sure there was no one who could overhear before he spoke.

"Your bed, you silly prat."

"Oh," Bodie said again, his mood and his voice brightening considerably. "Better get you home then, hadn't we?"

"Yeah, we'd better."

By mutual agreement, they took a cab first to Doyle's flat, so he could pick up his shaving kit and replacements for his ruined clothes, and then on to Bodie's flat, which beat Doyle's on all counts for comfort, location and lack of irritating neighbours.

All during the cab ride, with Doyle tantalizingly close, Bodie couldn't help but make plans. Nothing long term, nothing beyond the next five days. And nothing but sleep for the next twelve hours. But as tired as they both were, they couldn't sleep for three days. And before he returned to soldiering, Bodie wanted to make sure his final memories of Doyle were very good indeed.

*****

Doyle woke to an empty bed and an enormous sense of well-being. He sat up and stretched, feeling only a few twinges from the bruises that still marred his skin. It would be a fortnight at least before the bruises disappeared, but they'd already begun to fade from nearly black to a light purple. Doyle credited Bodie's flat with the swiftness of his recovery. The flat's mod cons included a generously sized tub and a hot water tank capable of filling it. In between bouts of some of the best sex Doyle'd ever experienced, he'd taken to lounging in the tub until his fingers pruned and the water cooled around him. Bodie had started to jokingly call him his merman, earning more than one splash in the face.

Doyle blinked, wondering where Bodie'd got to. Every other time he'd woken in the past five days, Bodie had been there, sleeping beside him or staring down at him with a daft, fond look that Doyle had no doubt mirrored his own expression.

A rustling from the lounge broke the relative silence of the flat, revealing Bodie's location. Doyle stood, pulled on pants and jeans and made his way to the front of the flat. The sight that greeted him chilled him as thoroughly as a drenching in cold water.

Bodie stood in the centre of the lounge, fully dressed with his leather jacket slung on a chair beside him. As Doyle entered, he was putting a few battered books in one of the two duffle bags sitting on the sofa. He raised his head and stared at Doyle with the look of a guilty thing.

"What are you doing?" Doyle asked, his good mood and sense of satisfaction stripped away.

"Thought that'd be obvious," Bodie said, zipping up the duffle and picking up his jacket. "I'm leaving."

"What?"

"Told you that I wouldn't be around for long. That I was going to join the army. I sign up today."

"But I thought…" Doyle trailed off, wondering what he had thought, exactly. That Bodie would stay? That they'd set up house together? He'd have to be a bloody idiot to think that the likes of them would rate a happy ending. But still… "Didn't think you'd leave so soon."

"You go back to work today. And there's nothing else to keep me here. So I reckoned there was no time like the present."

"When'd you even have time to set it up?"

"Called the recruiter yesterday. When sir was taking a bath."

Thinking back, that had been the only time Bodie hadn't interrupted one of his baths with either a sarcastic remark or a randy proposition. He should have known the bastard had something up his sleeve.

"I don't want you to go," Doyle said, cringing at how soft he sounded.

"I don't want to go," Bodie said, moving closer to him and wrapping his arms around Doyle. "But I have to. If I don't leave now, I never will. And neither of us can afford that. I don't want to interfere with your grand career in the Met."

Doyle snorted into Bodie's neck. "That'll be the day."

"Don't laugh. You've caught Rupert's eye, now. You may make detective yet."

"Hope so." Doyle clutched Bodie close to him. "How 'bout you?"

"I'll be a sergeant in Her Majesty's Army in no time."

"I just bet you will." Doyle kissed Bodie, a harsh and brutal kiss with nothing soft about it. "Christ, I'm gonna miss you."

"Me too, sunshine. Me, too." Bodie let his fingers lightly brush Doyle's cheek before pulling away and tugging on his jacket. Then he reached into one pocket and put a warmed piece of metal in Doyle's hand.

"What's this?" Doyle turned the key in his fingers.

"Flat's paid up till the end of next month. Someone should get some use out of it."

"I've got a flat."

"This one's nicer."

"I resent that."

"I've seen your flat." Bodie smiled. "This one's nicer."

"Yeah." Doyle surrendered the argument he couldn't fail to lose. "It is at that."

Bodie hefted both duffles in one hand, and then walked away, turning only when he reached the door, his eyes suspiciously bright. "I'll see you at the trial."

"Yeah, you will," Doyle said neutrally.

"And I could call you," Bodie said. "When I'm on leave."

"You could," Doyle said without hope. Things didn't work like that and they both knew it. And just like that, he saw the hope die in Bodie's eyes as well.

"Take care, PC Doyle."

"You too, Sergeant Bodie."

The door closed with a muted snick and Doyle was left standing alone, the late morning sun streaming through the window.

*****

## Epilogue, 1975

Bodie sat in a hard wooden chair, staring at the man across the desk from him. Glasses sitting halfway down his nose and a forbidding scowl on his face, he was reading a thick file, tutting at certain passages, shaking his head at others and doing everything possible to make Bodie feel like a recalcitrant schoolboy called in to the headmaster's office for putting a frog in the French mistress's desk drawer.

Well, it wasn't as if he hadn't been warned. When George Cowley had approached him about joining CI5, everyone had told him the Scotsman was a tough old bastard and a hard taskmaster, and that Bodie should tell him to sling his hook. But Bodie had ignored all the advice because of one thing: curiosity. He'd arrived for his first meeting with Cowley to find the ginger-haired man he'd first seen in a Southwark police station six years ago waiting for him. Cowley had given no indication that he remembered Bodie from that time, and that had intrigued Bodie.

And what was more, he found he liked the tough old bastard, and instinctively trusted him. Cowley was a man he would feel comfortable working for. He had the same air of competence that Bodie's best commanding officers had possessed. Even more irresistibly, he'd made it clear he was looking for men who were the best, men who were able to accept challenges beyond the norm. After two years in the Paras and four in the Regiment, Bodie was used to being the best. But he also wanted a change. CI5 seemed to be just the sort of change he was after, a chance to use the skills he'd spent half his lifetime learning, but with a chance to break away from the strict military discipline that had begun to chafe.

So Bodie had accepted Cowley's offer. He'd been honourably discharged from the SAS, much to Major Nairn's visible relief, and had spent the last ten weeks training with the latest intake of CI5 agents. The first four weeks, fitness training in the Brecon Beacons, had been a doddle. Nothing he hadn't done with the Regiment a hundred times before. The second five weeks had tested even his skills. Cowley's pet sadist, Brian Macklin, had put the lot of them through the sausage grinder: weapon drills, hostage drills, ambush drills and a few drills Bodie was sure Macklin had made up out of sheer perversity. And all that done on too little sleep and too much stress. By the final week of psychological testing, five men had dropped out, and the remaining ten had been exhausted, bruised and bloody.

Bodie had loved it all.

He'd gone through Macklin's training, grumbling like the rest of them, but secretly thinking that this was it, that he'd at last found the place he wanted to be, the job he wanted to do.

The job that wasn't quite his yet.

Only two things remained before he could call himself a CI5 agent. First, he had to receive the Cowley seal of approval. And second, he had to be assigned a partner. Though there were solo agents, Cowley had made it clear that he expected all new agents to work with a partner. Bodie struggled not to squirm in his seat and hoped that he would receive both Cowley's approval and a partner before leaving this office today.

Cowley flipped the final page, frowned one more time and then closed the file in front of him. With cool deliberation, he removed his glasses, placed them neatly on the desk and then fixed Bodie with a formidable stare.

"The reports on you are acceptable, Bodie," Cowley said without preamble. "Fitness, excellent. Weapons skills, excellent. You follow orders well and give them effectively."

"Thank you, sir." Bodie sat up and grinned.

"But I'm also informed that you can be insolent and insubordinate, and that you're inclined to laziness if given your head."

"No, sir…" Bodie began to sputter out a denial, but Cowley cut him off.

"Don't bother to disagree. You'd be no use to me if you were the sort to follow the book all the time. That's why Major Nairn pointed you out."

"Nairn recommended me?" Bodie was shocked. He'd made a game of seeing how far up Nairn's nose he could get. Then again, Nairn had probably enjoyed sending his chief bête noir to CI5.

"He did indeed. Told me you were one of his best men." Bodie grinned. "He also told me, and I quote, 'Bodie is the most aggravating son of a bitch I've had the displeasure to command in twenty years in the army.'" Bodie's grin faded.

"Yes, sir."

"Don't look so glum, man. That's the best recommendation you could have." Cowley gave him a look that seemed to hide mischief behind its severity. He stood, walked over to the cabinet behind Bodie and poured two generous helpings of amber liquid from a decanter. "I trust you'll not turn down a good malt whisky?" Cowley handed one glass to Bodie.

"Absolutely not, sir." Bodie took a swallow, savouring the taste of the rich, golden fire as it burned down his throat. "Does this mean I'm in?"

"Aye, you're in." Cowley sat down, and this time the mischief in his eyes resolved itself into a slight smile. "Welcome to CI5."

"Thank you, sir." Bodie said, even more pleased than he'd imagined he'd be that he'd met Cowley's standards.

"Don't thank me. It was your own doing that got you here."

"And a partner," Bodie dared ask. "Will you be assigning me a partner today?"

"That I will." Cowley opened a second file on his desk, one that was even thicker than Bodie's own. "I've had someone in mind for a while. Your skills should mesh nicely."

"Another soldier?"

"No. He's from the Met."

"A copper?" Bodie had picked up the SAS contempt for the police, and he found it inadvertently slipped out in those two words.

"Enough of that, laddie," Cowley said sharply. "This man's as good as you in most areas, and he has you beat with a handgun."

Bodie bit back his tongue. It wouldn't do to prove Nairn right so soon. And anyway, he'd known one copper he'd trust with his life…

Cowley leaned across the desk and hit the button on his intercom.

"Betty, is 4.5 there?"

"Yes, sir."

"Send him in."

Bodie turned as he heard the door open behind him. And kept his jaw from hitting the floor only by sheer force of will as Ray Doyle strode easily into the room.

Doyle was wearing shabby jeans that were almost indecently tight, an atrocious plaid shirt open at the collar to expose a silver chain around his neck, and a shoulder holster holding a Walther. His hair was longer than Bodie remembered and wildly curly. Bodie was struck by a mad impulse to run his fingers through those curls. Doyle was also wearing a grin so wide that Bodie thought it would split his face in two.

"Bodie, meet Ray Doyle." And then the mischief in Cowley's eyes really did break through, manifesting in a wicked smile. "But then, I think you might already know each other."

Bodie made it through the next few minutes without turning into a blithering idiot and, he hoped, without giving anything away to Cowley about exactly how much he and Doyle had been to each other. Though as he was rapidly coming to realise, Cowley was a sharp one, and you could never be sure what he knew. Bodie was given his call number, 3.7, his ID card, and then Cowley passed him into Doyle's hands for a tour of headquarters.

He felt dazed for the whole of the tour, falling back on polite convention and reflex matey-ness when introduced to other agents, and accepting the key and address of his new CI5-maintained flat with what he hoped was a steady hand. His focus returned when Doyle took him to the armoury to choose the weapon he'd be using to keep them both alive. He examined all the guns on offer before choosing a Browning 9 mm he couldn't wait to try out on the shooting range, not least because he wanted to challenge Cowley's claim that Doyle could beat him with a handgun.

He slung on his holster and adjusted the gun in it, taking comfort in the familiar feel of a weapon beneath his arm.

And then they were done, no other CI5 business to take care of, at least not for today.

As Bodie watched, Doyle shed the professional demeanour he'd wrapped around himself for the past two hours and that monstrous, infectious grin returned. Bodie couldn't help reflecting the grin back.

"Pub?" Doyle asked.

"Pub," Bodie agreed.

Doyle drove them to a place far away from CI5 but, he revealed, within stumbling distance of his own flat. Two rounds passed with nothing more important discussed than CI5 gossip and Liverpool's chances in Premiereship league.

But after two rounds, Bodie had enough Dutch courage inside him that he dared a bit more.

"How long have you known? That Cowley'd asked me to join CI5?"

"Nearly from the start. Cowley was there, you know. That time in Southwark."

"I saw him, back then," Bodie said. "He sat in for a bit when Rupert was interrogating me."

"He did the same when I gave my report. I half think he might have been looking for likely lads even then, the canny old bastard. CI5 was barely even a glimmer in his eye in 1969. Anyway, when your name came up for recruitment, he asked my opinion of you."

"And you told him I was talented, inspired, brilliant…"

"I told him you were a right pain in the arse, but you might be worth having."

"Traitor," Bodie said with a smile.

"Nah, not me," Doyle said, and quick as lightning, his expression transformed from teasing to serious. "I'm not the one that left."

"Doyle," Bodie said, hearing both warning and pleading in his own voice.

"I know," Doyle said, his hands up in surrender. "We didn't have any other choice. But it wasn't easy. Knowing what we could have had and didn't."

"Looks like you did okay," Bodie said, trying to steer the conversation to less loaded topics. "You made it to CI5, after all."

"Yeah, I did okay. Made DC shortly after you left. Seems Rupert was impressed with me after all."

"Told ya."

"Never made it any higher, though. Spent the next five years irritating the fuck out of him and any DCI I worked under. Then Cowley came calling and I jumped." Doyle took a swallow of his lager. "What about you?"

"Paras, SAS, I did make sergeant. Nothing else much to tell."

"You annoy your C.O.?"

"Probably," Bodie said, hedging until Doyle gave him a cold look. "Yeah, I did at that. Why?"

"Seems to be one thing Cowley looks for. Though it can't make life easy for him, being in charge of a horde of stroppy bastards." Doyle took another swallow of beer and then leaned closer. "You had any other blokes? Since me?"

Bodie nearly choked on a mouthful of lager. He swallowed and coughed, scrambling to regain his equilibrium as Doyle stood and pounded his back.

"Christ, Doyle, you could give me some warning."

"Sorry," Doyle said, though he didn't look sorry at all. "Didn't think you'd swallow your beer the wrong way." He sat back down and gave Bodie a mild look. "Were there any other blokes?"

"One or two," Bodie said, thinking of Keith, of Keller. "It's difficult when you're in the army, and there weren't many worth the risk. So I mostly stuck to the birds. You?"

"One or two, but I mostly stuck to birds as well. Easier all round."

"Yeah. Easier."

They sat in silence, the sound of the pub regulars surging around them. As Bodie watched him, Doyle studied the top of the table, his fingernail worrying at a long groove dug into the wood. The physical presence of the man struck Bodie like a blow, from the almond eyes, made even more exotic now by that wild hair, to the finely muscled body hidden by the scruffy clothes.

"I've never liked easier," Bodie said, not quite knowing the words were going to come until he'd spoken them.

Doyle looked up abruptly. His eyes widened, then narrowed, in the space of a second, but he said nothing.

"What's Cowley's opinion?" Bodie asked, pushing further. "On queers?"

"Cowley is remarkably free of all prejudice for such a crusty old bastard," Doyle said cautiously. "So long as there's no risk of blackmail. And if we're honest with him, there isn't."

"Then…" Bodie left his thought hanging, hoping Doyle would grasp his meaning without his saying more.

"But fraternisation between employees of CI5 is strictly frowned upon," Doyle said, in an atrocious Scottish accent that made Bodie realise he must be quoting Cowley directly.

"Oh," Bodie said, more disappointed than he'd anticipated.

"On the other hand," Doyle said, drawing out the words, "Cowley's hired the lot of us because we don't follow the rules. Not the bad ones, anyway."

"There is that," Bodie said, brightening.

"And my flat is only a block away."

"Is it, now?"

"And I rather fancy shagging you rotten." Doyle's voice was low and rough and rife with possibility.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"That's all right, then," Bodie said. "'Cause I rather fancy being shagged rotten. By you."

Doyle flashed him that wide grin, and Bodie knew without a doubt that it was going to happen. They both swiftly finished their pints and headed out into the street.

Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon of roofs and chimney pots, and the sky had turned the colour of a new bruise, all deep reds and purples. Compared to the cigarette haze inside the pub, the air on the street was clean and fresh and full of promise, just like the evening itself.

Walking down the street with Doyle at his side, Bodie didn't delude himself that this was happily ever after. He didn't reckon they could afford to be exclusive, didn't even think that they'd have much time in bed together at all. Cowley might be tolerant, but he guessed they'd both be out on their ears if the Scotsman found out they were too involved.

But the thought of Doyle at his side in battle, and in his bed when it mattered, that was the only happy ending he needed.


End file.
